Places you shouldn't wedge your rack

My house has been for sale a few months now, so I've learned the realtors' showing schedule coincides with days it looks as though a herd of wildebeests has been mating in the living room.

Thursday morning, I was putting the finishing touches on tidying for a 10 a.m. showing. I wonder whether anyone even notices if I've scrubbed the shower or wiped down the kitchen counters, I mused. I wonder what sort of things people comment on as they walk through the house.

BOING!

That's the sound of me having an idea. A really good idea.

What if I pretended to vacate the premises as usual, but actually hid under the bed in the guest room? I could listen to the entire showing, and hear what people say about my house. That sort of feedback could be valuable, right?

Plus I'm nosy. There's always that.

I scuttled into the guest room to make sure my plan would work. I got down on the floor and stuck my head under the bed, testing to be certain my skull wasn't too big to fit.

All clear.

I'm a pretty small person, so I figured the rest of me would slide neatly beneath the bed without a hitch.

But I forgot about the one part of me that isn't so small.

My housemate walked in just in time to find me wedged halfway under the bed and stuck – totally, completely stuck – on my boobs.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Thinking about hiding under the bed," I replied with as much nonchalance as I could muster with my rack caught in a vice grip.

"How's that working out for you?"

"Not so well."

I struggled a little, then began to panic. What if I couldn't free myself? Would my housemate be able to help? Would I be stuck there until the fire department arrived or the realtors showed up with their house-hunting clients? I could imagine the conversation:

And here we have the spacious kitchen with cherry cabinets and lovely granite counters, and over here we have a romance author who's oblivious to the dimensions of her own body.

I squirmed again, more frantic this time.

"Need a hand?" My housemate asked.

"My boobs are stuck," I admitted.

"That's not something I hear every day."

"Pity," I yelped as I finally freed myself and crawled out from under the bed.

Thoroughly discouraged, I finished the last tidbits of tidying before I slunk to my car and left in disgrace.

I should probably be embarrassed about the whole thing, but mostly I'm just annoyed. I really did want to eavesdrop. Who would have guessed my boobs would be a barrier to my own nosiness?