Did someone once say that the naked body is a work of art, or am I dreaming it?
Heaven knows there are enough nudes drawn and painted by the great masters to support the argument; and, depending on the era, culture and country, the opinions of birthday-suit-beauty differ wildly. For example, in Hollywood, my naked form would probably be relegated to hijinks with Johnny Knoxville and Steve-O, but within certain tribes in Africa, it would represent a bountiful coming harvest and a means to celebrate.
This one-person nudity discussion all came to mind when the wonderfully up-for-anything John Cena paraded himself in the (practically) altogether across the Oscars stage, with only a large envelope between him and the howls of the censors. Never has his “You can’t see me” catchphrase from the WWE been less relevant. We couldn’t not see him, along with the who’s-who of Hollywood royalty.
Cena is in amazing shape, of course. That, coupled with a fantastic sense of humour, significantly lowered his risk of being ridiculed.
Isn’t that what most of us dread? How many have tossed and turned in the night as vivid scenarios of ourselves completely starkers in public play through our heads?
There we are, sitting on a bus, or picking out a chocolate bar at the corner shop, and suddenly we’re sans garments; an emperor with new clothes. It’s always a scary dream interpreted in different ways by experts. Is it that we are feeling vulnerable in our real lives, or anxious about an upcoming change of circumstances? Whatever it might be, all we’re worried about in the dream is finding a leaf, newspaper, Pringles can… anything to hide our bits from inquisitive eyes until we can get home. Speaking of which, where are our house keys? No pockets = precious few hidey-holes.
Back in the real world, the approval of how much skin we show sometimes boils down to surroundings and circumstances. Daring dresses that push the envelope on the red carpet? Cutting-edge fashionable. Wearing that same outfit to the supermarket? Outrageous! Thongs and skimpy bikinis on the beach? Have at it. Walking down the main road in said outfit? Gasp! And here’s interesting: Why is a revealing swimsuit acceptable in this day and age, but being caught in a bra and underwear – probably offering more coverage – is a nightmare come true? (I exclude Kanye’s wife Bianca Censori from this conversation – that lady marches to the beat of her very own.)
I’ve always thought that if I was caught naked by mistake (how it would happen, I haven’t the foggiest – I don’t make a habit of standing near industrial vacuums), the way to handle it would be to suck in; act cool, calm and collected; and quietly make my way to a place of shelter.
Yeah… that sense of reason went out the window earlier this week.
My bedroom is on the ground floor with an ensuite bathroom that has no door of its own – useful if I have the sudden urge to go potty in the night and every second counts. Directly opposite the bathroom, as the crow flies over the bed, are French doors that lead out to the garden. As I’m about as outdoorsy as Liberace, I mainly use them to let cats into the house or throw scraps to the chickens.
On this particular day, I was swanning around betwixt bed and closet, trying to decide on what to wear; whether I should put that size 10 skirt in storage; and wondering if hanging on to a full-size Olaf costume was the most intelligent use of space. You know I’m not kidding.
As my pale form, unfettered by a single stitch of clothing, moved about like a scene from ‘Ghostbusters’, I suddenly became aware of movement outside the French doors. In my menopausal haze, I had completely forgotten that there were workmen on my property, making their way around the building to make a list of things that needed repairing.
The blinds were completely up, and not knowing how much the outside light/shadow affected how far someone could see into my room, I immediately felt totally exposed. I dropped to the carpet like a sack of potatoes, looking frantically around for something to hold in front of myself. The only things within arm’s reach were a laptop and a small travel bag. Why couldn’t there have been an Oscars envelope nearby? There was nothing else for it – I would have to crawl to the bathroom and get behind one of its protruding walls where towels were hanging in abundance.
Every time one of the men moved out of view, I made a quick break for it to gain a few more feet. There were snipers everywhere, and I was an OnlyFans Jason Bourne.
After what felt like an eternity, I finally got to sanctuary and grabbed a bath sheet to wrap around myself. I then proceeded to walk back into the bedroom, cool as a cucumber.
Either the two men were great actors, or they were completely oblivious to the drama that had unfolded indoors. I looked out to see them absorbed in the state of my guttering (steady… ) and trellises. Maybe they hadn’t seen a thing. Maybe it was just my own paranoia and fear coming to the fore.
Or maybe I’ll get an estimate for “Complete rebuild urgently required; repair sagging facade”…
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