When I moved into my first apartment, a mid-twenties girl showed up at my apartment. She asked if she could come in and talk, so -- being that I was lonely and completely naive -- I let her in. It took me about 20 minutes to realize she was a JW, but I liked her and she wasn't very pushy so we chatted quite some time. She visited me about 3 times before being horribly injured in a skiing accident. Two stern middle-aged women replaced her and it took me ages to figure out how to kick them out of my apartment. In the end, I just stopped answering the door. I would listen to them shuffle outside my apartment and hope they couldn't hear me breathing. I felt like I was in a terribly lame movie about a girl being chased to her death by women in long flowered dresses and heavy shoes.
When I moved back to my home city, a pair of JWs arrived on my doorstep within days of moving in. I felt like I had been sold out by the Welcome Wagon who had arrived first with baskets of goodies and coupons only to pass my name on as someone who will open her door to strangers. This pair of JWs was not as sweet as my first visitor, but not as off putting as her replacements. They continued to come back to the house though I assured them I was happy with my own church and that I did know about Jesus - thank you very much. Finally, I decided to turn their tactics against them. I had a handout from one of our church functions, so made a point of trying to make them take it and read it and get back to me on what they thought.
They never came back.
When I finally bought my own home, a new group came by. Despite me frightening them with bad hair, they continued to return to the house. For my 30th birthday, I allowed myself to ask the most determined of the group to stop coming by. It worked. Until I moved again.
Now, in our new place, we've had a couple of drive by JWs. They come, ring the bell, and by the time I get there they hand me some paperwork and carry on. None seem to want to make conversation.
It could be that every one of them have come before 10am. Anyone who knows me know I am not awake before 10am very often. And certainly never willingly.
This morning, I stumbled from bed with the dog barking madly because the door bell has rung. I threw a zip up sweater on over my tank top and tripped over the dog getting to the door. Two men stood there. They mumbled something, thrust a paper into my hand and almost ran down the steps. I was glad it didn't take long, but was confused by their reaction. That is, until I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.
One boob was not fully covered by the tank top.
I may be put on the "do not contact" list after this.