They say the human body is a masterpiece; a work of art, magnificent to behold in all its splendour.
Heck, painters have captured the naked form on canvas for centuries. Michelangelo and Leonardo were fans, and they knew a thing or two about beauty. That being said, would they have been as eager to pick up a brush if they’d caught me in the altogether a couple of weeks ago, as some poor (now probably traumatised) guy did?
I know you’re intrigued, so I’ll begin …
I don’t mean to brag, but I share my bedroom with a cat. She’s 16 years old, feisty and fussy. It’s the future my parents had always dreamed about for me when I was a child. Chiqui does not suffer fools, and whenever I take her to the vet, I’ve got to dose her up with 300mg of Gabapentin just to make her safe to handle. If you’re not familiar with this magical medication, let’s just say that normally about 100mg would have a good-sized dog lolling about for a few hours.
Like many cats, she’ll love a particular type of food for a while, but just when I think I’ve cracked the code, she sniffs at it on the plate, looks at me with disgust, and flounces off. So, what with that game of Fancy Feast roulette and her general mood swings, it means often some chow gets left behind.
I used to throw it away, which was a pain because it dried hard as diamonds; then, one day, I had the bright idea of feeding it to the chickens outside. My bedroom has French doors that lead to the back garden where our resident fowl dwell. I could just open those, stick the plate on the patio, and they would clean the food off like there had been none there in the first place. I swear, chickens are the goats of the bird world.
Once I put the plan into action, I marvelled at the brilliance of it. I was happy; the chickens were happy (and not stupid – they gathered outside the doors each day like students waiting to hear if they’d won a role in the school play); and Chiqui didn’t care either way, so long as she had some food she liked.
As far as the timing for the daily routine went, it often happened not long after I had properly risen from my bed. Whatever her majesty had left on the plate from the night before was fair game, and so out it went. Thing is, each day, before I enter the gen pop of the house, I tend to roam around my boudoir completely unclothed – Think: (somewhat) hairless, pale Sasquatch. Hey, who was I trying to impress? I hate sleeping in pyjamas because when I toss and turn, they get all up in mah bizniz, and as far as the cat is concerned, I’m an operational robotic nom nom dispenser. Nothing else is relevant. “Wear a Chewbacca costume if you wish – go hog wild,” I fancy her saying, as she yawns and stretches.
In the early days of my green recycling initiative, I used to throw a towel around myself or put on a long T-shirt before excommunicating the plate, but after a while it seemed like such an unnecessary, time-consuming step. I could see the neighbour’s door a distance across the way, and there was a fence and shrubbery betwixt us. Surely even if that door opened, I’d have ample time to retreat into my bedroom, close the doors and pull down the shade. Why should I bother trying to seek out something to ensure my modesty when there was no one around?
From that moment on, my pale arm would emerge from the doors every morning, with maybe a flash of something behind it, drop the sacrifice to the chickens, and disappear. However, as the birds showed up in greater numbers, it became more difficult to just crack the door a hair, and so – like the pale hen with the attitude who was always front and centre – I became more bold. First it was a shoulder, then a leg, and about a month along, my entire naked form made it out to the patio. All that was missing was David Attenborough hunkered down behind the bushes, binoculars in hand, trying to catch a glimpse of the Greater Spotted Crisco Critter – a reward for the legendary biologist who had monitored the nest for many weeks.
“ … quite extraordinary form, with an unusual centre of gravity, and an obvious ‘onboard’ storage of excess food in the posterior and anterior areas, much like a bear preparing for the exceptionally harsh winter ahead … ”
Yes, all was going swimmingly. I never saw the neighbours, and I could finish the task quickly and efficiently, in complete secrecy, until … one morning about three weeks ago, one of our monthly service people came right around the corner of the house while I was mid-drop. They had access to our backyard, and usually just came by, checked equipment, changed out filters, and left. I guess it never occurred to me that rather than clambering over the roof to get there, they might take the easier ground-level path and approach by stealth.
I froze for a moment. It wasn’t like I was even striking an attractive pose for a photographer, and my patches of flaring-up psoriasis were on full display. I was literally (and figuratively) completely exposed.
Oh, no – sorry – I was wearing my UGG slippers. Nice free advertising for them.
“ … and when startled, the beast can go into an almost coma-like state, or clumsily lunge at a perceived predator … ”
I have to hand it to that hapless man who encountered me; he didn’t miss a beat as I apologised.
“No problem,” he said amiably, carrying on his journey as though he’d just seen a tin of peanuts.
In fairness to me, I didn’t jump and scream and carry on as I might have when I was younger, slimmer and less … wubbly. What was there to do? I had flown too close to the sun on wings of cellulite, and I got burned, but good.
I went back inside my bedroom, shrugged, put some clothes on and got on with my day.
I’m not saying there weren’t some moments in the hours that followed when I didn’t cringe and wish I’d grabbed that towel, but really, what did it matter in the big scheme of things?
I thank that worker for being a gentleman that day and I thank goodness that as I’m older and wiser, I don’t worry so much about embarrassment.
I might not have been ‘magnificent to behold in all my splendour’, but I’m sure someone will want to get their paints out.
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