NAKED & AFRAID
Embarrassed to admit, I was once a fan of the reality show Naked and Afraid. Dropping survivalists in remote locations for 21 days, it spoke to my wanderlust and risk-taking spirit. Little did I know I would star in my own version of the baring, daring series.
My stripping down began in late summer of 2016, as my life devolved from a thriving, corporate exec living in a posh Manhattan apartment, in a committed 13-year relationship, surrounded by a full circle of friends, healthy in mind, body, and ego, to an unemployed, agoraphobic, isolated, 50-year-old living with her parents in a gated, Florida community. I had been motivated to make bold life changes (and share custody of Freud the dog, who moved to Miami with my ex), yet ended up living
NAKED AND AFRAID!
My first weekend back in Miami, I took Freud to the beach in desperate need of the ocean’s healing. A Standard Poodle with three coats of curly hair, sand was seemingly attached to every strand. Once home, I undressed us both quickly and prodded Freud into the shower. Just as I was unscrewing the top to his detangling shampoo, Freud made a Houdini-like escape, running amuck, dripping water and sand everywhere. I had to corral him. With his collar and a dehydrated piece of salmon as lures back to the shower, I chased Freud into the little space between the foyer and the elevator which opens directly to my parents’ apartment. I turned around and he was gone. Freud’s poofy poodle head had pushed the door closed as he re-entered the apartment. Me?
Locked out, in the foyer, naked, holding a red-studded dog collar and fish bait.
I yelled: “Let me in; use your paws to push down the handle. I know you understand.”
Standard Poodles are as smart as millennial humans. I had no keys. My parents were out of town and my phone was in the bathroom. Should I laugh or cry? I began to panic, then assessed my options. There were but two: Cover my lady parts, get into the elevator long enough to try that never-used intercom and hope for someone to hear me. Or play it cray, cray — wear the dog collar, put the dehydrated piece of fish in my mouth, make a naked be-line for the lobby. I chose the first. I stepped into the elevator. Depressed the button.
“Hola, necessita ayuda,” beep. After a few seconds, the intercom turned off. OMG, there are three video cameras in here. I got out of the elevator. Freud was yelping loudly. I could be locked out for days! I went back into the elevator. “Hello, hello?!” Beep. “Escucha,” I yelled, “No hablo, key.” Beep. I heard the elevator coming from above, praying it wouldn’t open on my parents’ floor. Crouching down, facing the wall, I tried to hide. False alarm. “Llave, naked, por favor,” I implored from non-English speakers wanting to engage in conversation.
While waiting, I contemplated the decisions I’d made. They all seemed poor ones: move to Miami, parental co-habitation, my breakup, new hookups, our visit to the beach. Fifty-eight minutes later, the elevator dinged; this time, it stopped, and the doors opened. It’s Tony, head concierge, with a key. Making no eye contact, I beseeched, “I’m naked. Please don’t look and just open the door.” Back inside, I gave Freud the stink eye and marched our sandy, naked asses into the shower. There wasn’t enough soap to wash away the humiliation.
I don’t want my former life back. I’m creating a different one, keeping a few pieces of the former “empress’” clothes, and donating what no longer fits. Now I know that being
NAKED AND AFRAID
is a rapid-fire way to see your whole self, shadows, and all. Perhaps I’m now better suited to audition for the reality show; but, Naked and Afraid no longer appeals.
I already survived it. Until my next episode.
