In our gym locker room, I am often called upon to talk to naked women. I try to look down and rush to a “doored” private cubby, but they find me and want to talk about ordinary things. They don’t seem to care that something (a lot, actually) is off.
Why can’t they just leave me alone??
I know we’re all women. I’m not offended by their casual attire, even if it does feel a little "National Geographicy" at times. It’s just not part of my normal to talk to strangers without at least two layers of something between us. The weird part is while I am at my MOST vulnerable that “that condition”—they don’t see it that way. I’ve actually been scolded by a nude.
“You should mop up the floor under you, those puddles are slippery!” I turned to apologize and was greeted by angry eyes and a lot of peachy flesh. There’s something about a bold, “Unashamed to be Naked” woman that intimidates me.
I had nightmares for a week.
I’m no prude. I’ve had plenty of pleasurable private naked historic events, but none of them ever involved yappy senior female nudists. Maybe it’s just me, but if you’re going to enter my personal space-bubble (as many of them do) unclothed -- you should at least buy me dinner.
Here’s my personal decree: If you’re naked in the locker room and you want to talk to me, I’ll be able to pay attention to you for approximately 2 nanoseconds. After that, my brain starts sending a million ADHD-fueled conflicting signals and…Heidi will have left the building. If you really want to talk to me, unless it’s about danger or that a spider is about to drop on me--can’t I just meet you in the lobby?
“What do you think about the “Piggly Wiggly” expansion?” A member asked me. They never ask me “Yes/No” questions.
“I think it’s nice,” I, all dressed and packed up ready to go, managed to say, looking at her hairline.
“I think it’s fantastic. They’re really giving Festival…”
“I got to run, Hazel.”LA-LA-LA-LA-LA