Naked Time

There’s a special moment in every morning, somewhere after the shower has been shut off and before the snap of elastic signals the secure arrival of underwear around your waist, when we are naked and alone.  Largely overlooked as insignificant, and almost always hurried, this is a moment that deserves reflection.

I'm a curtains-open kind of a guy - not one to close my blinds unless absolutely necessary.  I'm trusting, too.  What are the chances that there's some creeper out there stalking me with binoculars through my exposed windows?  But just in case there is, when it comes time to drop towel and put on clothes after a shower, certain precautions must be taken.

There’s usually some corner of the bedroom that’s up to the task - somehow positioned so as to prevent prying eyes from spotting your private parts.  I can picture this place in most all of my homes, and the surrounding morning routine in that particular slice of my life.

My childhood bedroom was a converted garage, and the windows were high enough to preclude any breach of privacy.  These were free times - I could drop my towel casually, take my time selecting underwear, and get dressed slowly.

My dorm room at UC Davis always had the specter of a returning roommate, so I would change in the shower stall.

My first apartment in West Davis had a large window onto the walkway, but my room extended deeply to either side, so I changed in the corner just in front of the dresser, where the angle was acute enough to block any wandering eyes.  

My room in Barcelona had a window looking only onto the elevator shaft - again, a non-issue.  

Senior year I lived in a townhouse-style apartment.  My room had a very large sliding glass door onto a tiny little balcony, and there was no position that could be completely secure.  Home alone, I would use the large hallway above my stairs; not alone, the time of day would determine my routine.  With no immediate neighbors, daytime views into the depths of my room could only be achieved, in theory, by a most dedicated viewer in an apartment 200 yards away.  Or from a church, which I disregarded.  At night, however, my window a showcase for the goings-on of a lighted interior, I sometimes closed the blinds.  But sometimes I did not.  Sometimes I merely recognized the heightened danger, and made a cautious and rapid change: un-tucking my folded towel, leaving it draped skirt-like from my waist, bent half-way, I could safely release the towel, step carefully into my boxer briefs, and in one quick motion, pull the underwear vigorously upwards, dropping the towel as I straightened, and offering, if at all, a most fleeting glimpse of my behind.  

My first San Francisco bedroom faced an adjacent apartment building a mere stone’s throw away, and opened to a large window filling the entire Western exposure.  Across the yard was a young Chinese family, with a little girl who would often sit and watch us from her window.  This caused me to be more sensitive than ever to my changing habits.  Fortunately, I was blessed with a large closet perpendicular to the window, with a pair of hinged sliding doors that protruded a foot and a half when open.  Generally regarded as a pain in the ass, in the early morning light, as I prepared for work, these doors afforded welcome protection for the eyes of an innocent little girl.  I merely had to snuggle in against my hanging shirts to execute the towel drop and boxer application in complete privacy.

My current bedroom has perhaps the greatest window space to floor space ratio of all, and to execute a private change I’ve been forced into the very front corner of my room just behind the closed door, a narrow haven where  I must remain mostly erect and flattened against the closed door, else my behind protrude into the line of sight from across the street.

Motivated by the winter cold more than my modesty, I’ve begun to change in the bathroom before even exiting the bath.  Not only do I avoid the issue of privacy, I take advantage of the steamy warmth of the bathroom.  The only issue here is the difficulty in achieving complete dryness - with so much steam in the air, extra care must be taken with the towel before undergarments can be safely applied. Like it's predecessors, my current routine is dictated by necessity, and, until now, established and practiced in mindless fashion.

It occurs to me that, since I learned to dress myself, this is the one moment in life when I am naked with myself.  What a shame it seems to hurry through this moment or pass it cramped in a small bathroom.  This space between wet naked person and fully clothed member of society is charged with vulnerability, vanity, and freedom.  I wonder if there is not some greater human value in this small moment - a slender thread connecting us to a primal past free from garments that so effectively define us, tenuously clinging to our modern, accelerated selves.

One day, an in-suite bath, ample acreage, and radiant floor heating will combine to provide me with a most agreeable post-shower experience, and cultivate a stronger connection with my natural naked self.  In the meantime, perhaps another rug for my bedroom floor, a set of heavy curtains, and the occasional nighttime use of my electric heater will suffice.