This is Me Naked

Public nudity excites me to pieces.

Not so much seeing naked people disturbing the public with their buns and rolls, but more so the idea of me being in the nude.

Let me flesh it out.

Oftentimes as I’m living my day out as your common, preoccupied pedestrian, I catch myself being absolutely amazed by the human ability to act completely civilized. Here I am, walking on the right side of the road. Here I am, crossing the street (yeahyeah, the light’s red, but the car’s still at least a block away). Here I am, letting out a quick ‘scuse me as I brush shoulders with a fellow civilian.

And here I am, not picking at that man’s facial hair. Here I am, not barricading a boutique with baby strollers. Here I am, not stripping naked and practicing the nay nay.

But honestly: how easy would it be to do all the above?

The amount of self-restraint the sane individual contains, I emphasize, is ridiculously amazing. Adapting to the norm is effortless, subconscious even. We’re all wired to be a cell of a larger whole.

So when you pull down your pants in public, you’re not only stripping off your clothes, but also stepping out of the socially constructed world we accept to be ‘natural’. You are recognizing your self-consciousness and making the deliberate effort to, temporarily, not be a cooperative member of the human organ. It’s raw, it’s thrilling, it’s liberating.

But here I am, fully clothed, getting pretty tight and cozy with the oppression that is my 100% cotton shirt and ripped jean-shorts coupled with what is nearly 23-years of social conditioning. I’ve never actually been nude in public, and I even missed the famous naked run at the end of my senior year in University. If I ever do get naked in public, it’ll probably follow joining an organized Facebook event, which can’t possibly count. Like I said before, I’m your common, preoccupied pedestrian. I’m self-conscious, I mean, really self-conscious about many things. For instance, my lack of breasts, which I cover with self-deprecating jokes, and the spontaneous moments when I become an inarticulate, mumbling idiot. I’d say writing’s definitely at the top of the list of things that make me wonder if I’ve given myself too much credit. In a society that places an immense value on intelligence, it’s no wonder we care so much about how well we could work this system that reflects the processes and productions of your mind. I’d say even public speaking isn’t as bad as the written word. At least you can blame the anxiety or the flu. Once written down, your words are fixed and exposed for any reader to consume and judge. You’re not there to change your tone, crank up the vocabulary, or throw in a quick “nevermind, just kidding!” based on the reader’s reaction to your creation. It’s terrifying, and it’s not easy to hide unless you separate your writing from what you’d consider your true identity. I’ve written an embarrassing number of chapters on under a slightly less embarrassing pseudonym, and typed out a tearful stream of private posts romanticizing loss and heartbreak. But this is a first, laying out my words, full-frontal.

So being here, telling you my rather insignificant thoughts, is sort of a big deal. I’d say it’s probably the closest I’d get to being publicly naked, which isn’t saying much in the least…but hey, it’s progress.

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