I entered the locker room, with the silly notion of changing out of my sweaty-beast clothes and into something a bit more fresh. I picked a nice secluded area where no other women were disrobing because – even though I am a massage therapist – I am totally uncomfortable with nudity. Especially my own. I even sleep clothed. Mostly because I’m afraid there will be a fire during the night, and if I am naked, the firemen may change their minds about saving me.
Here I am, in my post work-out euphoria, trying not to make eye contact with myself in the enormous mirrors that are absolutely everywhere. Along comes a perky, happy, hairy lady. Does she go to the other two areas of the locker room that are totally empty? No way, Jose. To my mounting horror, she comes and plops her sweaty hind quarters on the bench right next to me (which, by the way, is nasty in its own right. do you know where that bench has been? whose buttocks have previously sat upon it?). Okayyy. So, I try to keep breathing and not make eye contact or any other form of contact with her. She proceeded to remove all of her clothes (although it is only my peripheral vision and sense of hearing that is telling me this) until there is not a shred of anything on her skin other than sweat and hair. What does one typically do in this situation? Well, dance, of course. She starts swiveling her hips like a hula dancer, and then doing a fabulous series of stretches involving the bench, MY bench, the increasingly dirty bench! I know this because by now, there’s no way I can pretend NOT to look. I mean, this is a circus side-show in the locker room. I did what I always do in times of stress, I ran away. I embraced my sweaty-beast-ness and bolted right on out of there. Not for fear, really. Well, maybe a little fear. The fear of unstoppable laughter bubbling from my mouth.
If you live in Colorado, you probably have guessed that this took place in Nederland. This may be why the whole “gym” concept didn’t last there. People up in those thar’ mountains just have far too many illegal substances in their bloodstreams to exercise. It’s just not safe, really. And then there’s the chance of inappropriate exposure. I mean, you’re boundaries are down, you’re feeling the music, why not dance naked in the locker room?
Yes, I have some inhibitions. And I’d like to keep them, thank you very much.
So, while this is somewhat conceivable in the Hippie/Trustfunder Mecca of the world (a.k.a. Nederland), you would think that down in the ‘burbs people might have a few more scruples. Well, they have a few. But not many.
My sister (yep, borrowing your story my sweetie) works out at a place in Superior. Superior, if you don’t live here, tries very hard to live up to its name. It is a place where the once happy couples of Boulder end up heading when there marriages fall apart. I’d have to look at a census, but to me it appears that at least 75% of the households there are divorced. This is fine, and good. BUT, when (some) woman are single, self-esteem shattered, trying to meet new men… plastic surgery happens. Superior’s bubble is extra bouncy, from the overabundance of implants (or underabundance of self-esteem?). All that bouncing makes those women proud, and frequently topless. Just ask my sister. She tells me all sorts of bouncy stories. There are the “toweled (from the waist down)” and the “completely naked,” who feel it not only is appropriate, but actually required, to engage you in conversation while flaunting their bouncies. Or feel it is necessary to blow dry their hair and apply a full pallet of make-up before putting on some underwear. Really, take away the load of body hair, the saggy natural bosom, and the illegal drugs (but add some legal narcotics and some silicon) and you’ve got my friend from Nederland, dancing all around the suburbs, celebrating her naked self.
Nudity is great. I’m glad there are so many people who are comfortable with it. I am not one of them. Please don’t make me feel repressed. I like my modesty. It’s comforting. Like my cotton undies and my flannel pajamas. Maybe it’s because I grew up in a Muslim country. Maybe it’s because I don’t have falsies. Maybe it’s because I don’t look like a Victoria’s Secret Model. Maybe it’s just because I like the feel of clothes around my bubble-tastic belly.