This morning the sun shone brilliantly, but the temperature was in the early 30s. Before I set off on my bicycle, I mummified myself in long johns, a pair of jeans, a sweater and a dress over that, a hooded sweatshirt over that, along with a fleece cap, mittens over thin gloves, a coat and a scarf which I’d wrapped around my mouth and nose so that only my eyes were visible.
As I rounded the hill down my street, I passed my neighbor Shawna’s house. Its inhabitant stood on the front porch with a bowl of cereal, talking to her dogs. I yelled out a muffled “Hi, Shawna!” as I coasted past, and she casually lifted a hand in return, recognizing me of course because who else would leave the house beneath a mountain of clothing of such exaggerated proportions?
It was then that I noticed that all she wore were flesh-colored panties, a thin white t-shirt, and a wool cap. I forced myself not to gape at her before I remembered gratefully that my scarf covered my open mouth. She made no move to cover herself; in fact, she appeared wholly unconcerned by my presence.
I would like to say that my immediate thought was “Really, panties and a cap in February. What an inefficient way to modulate body temperature. She should at least wait until April”. Actually, that was my second thought.
My first reaction was, absurdly, shock at such an intimate view of her body. So little separated the elements from her nether regions. She’d just treated me and probably others to a generous view of her fleshy thighs, carelessly exposed for all to see. Had she no shame? Well, no. No, she didn’t.
But I did. The irony is that I have been seen by far more people, while wearing far less. Just twelve hours before, four people had drawn me in various poses; the only thing I wore was nail polish.
I am fairly comfortable in my body, and comfortable being nude in many contexts. I hike alone when I can, because it inevitably happens that at a certain point I feel the desire to strip naked, and when I am alone I have the luxury of giving in to it. At that point I peel my clothes off…. immediately my body lightens as if unbound. There are few sensations better than that of a warm breeze on your bare breasts. I spent hours last summer traipsing through woods, wading in creeks, peeing behind shrubs. Once I pretended I was Eve, only I had to supply my own fruit, which was a banana and not as romantic.
So, it disturbed me that my immediate reaction to Shawna’s perfectly relaxed partial nudity was one of embarrassment. I might have reacted innocently in a different context, and perhaps I would eventually, if Shawna were to appear on her porch in her panties enough times to where I’d begin to regard her lack of clothing in the same way I regard that of my 2-year-old neighbor, Gabriel. I freely admit how absurd it is that even now the thought of Shawna wearing next to nothing makes me press my Puritanical lips into a line of disapproval.
Perhaps I could thank my preacher father and my religious mother for instilling in me the virtue of Good Christian Shame. But I would like to suggest that I am, in part, the product of a society in general that deems it perfectly acceptable to expose body parts in the name of aesthetics but when a woman is disrobed, simply being…. somehow this is improper.
