So I recently joined a gym. As previously mentioned, I’ve gotten a bit fat. Besides the point. The point is: I joined a gym. The catch: it’s a naked gym. Not totally, not while you’re working out, but at any point when in the women’s locker room, nudity is the status quo.
In fairness, it should be noted that they gym is in Asia (where I now live), it is quite expensive, and includes a cavernous, marble encased sauna/ hot & cold bath/ shower area. It also includes an overabundance of nude Asian women.
Now, as conservatives go, I’m not very. However, when it comes to the blatant parading of the naked form, I’d rather not. In general I have naught to be ashamed of, but I was raised with a sense of modesty for which I have come to be grateful. So when I initially joined there was a period where I was beyond of mortified at the idea of strutting my stuff in the buff. I was, however, shocked at how quickly this feeling vanished. Even in the company of my American co-workers. In fact, after only a day it was clear that it would actually be stranger to be covered.
That was stage one. And it was fabulous! For a blissful week I marched my naked, mildly jiggly self from one end of the locker room to the showers where I would scrub and rinse unashamed, before soaking and returning to my clothing a half hour later. The real freedom comes when no one else gives one shit about what you are doing. It was fantastic.
Then, the other day, I wanted to blow dry my hair. But even in my liberated state I could not bring myself to march proudly into the 360 mirror room which houses the blow driers, in full (though not fluorescent) lighting. I thought about it… all the old ladies do it. Again, it would almost be weirder to not blow naked (haha).
But in the back of my mind, I still felt like That Guy. The one who’s way too comfortable with his (cough) accessories, and parades around giving thumbs up and ass slaps at the gym. I am well aware that I would be the only one thinking such a thing, but none the less, I’m still an American. I still read the New York Times. I can’t do it.
Then came the worse realization. I’m a thong girl. My first boyfriend got me hooked on them and I never looked back. And the only thing worse than processing around in an Asian locker room filled with middle-aged nudies would be being the young American girl in a thong.
“Hi! I’m a slut!” it would say.
And that’s when it hit me…. The covering of my business, and the precise way I’ve chosen to do it is a direct implication (note: not indication) of my sex life. Nice see-through-dkny g-string, tramp. Point taken. Or, on a conservative day, a spandex Calvin Kline thong. No muss! No fuss! No modesty! SHAME!
If I was truly comfortable with myself, or truly confident in the apathy of my new gym buddies it would be irrelevant… except that as even the mildly socially aware person that I am I can guarantee that no one will bat an eye at my bootylicious American ass…. unless it is framed by a thong.
Our sins, it would appear, are in fact worn. Just underneath everything else.
