I did an interview with a CBC radio reporter on Queen Street this afternoon.
And I was naked.
This is what happens when I actually take a lunch and leave my office.
I end up naked. On Queen Street.
To be fair, I wasn’t completely naked. I still wore my sunglasses, big ones that obscured most of my face. And I was standing in a changing room style booth while I undressed and I didn’t have to leave the booth, and I was in there by myself while the reporter, the two producers and the camera dude stood outside the vinyl walls. There was no roof, so you could see the top of my head (and sunglasses) and my painted toes peeked out beneath the curtain.
But to be fair, the only thing that held the ‘door’ shut was a clip and the only thing stopping someone from running up and ripping the door open was a 5 foot chick with bigger sunglasses than mine.
And I was still naked.
They were doing a report on nudism on Canada in honor of it’s 90th anniversary and were asking people why nudism wasn’t so popular anymore, especially in Canada.
Because we live in Canada? Where it’s cold?
The weather today was nippy, my reporter pointed out. And it’s the end of MAY.
So after asking a bunch of questions about nudism, they asked if I would ever try it and I said that it depended on the circumstances and the company I was in. The reporter asked if I would be willing to get naked in her presence, and I couldn’t see behind her sunglasses but if I had to guess, there was a twinkle in her eye. I told her I’d consider it and then I laughed, and asked her if she was going to ask me to get naked in the booth behind her, but I already knew that because the producer tipped me off.
I laughed again and said I was willing to try anything once and so I did it.
I’m not an anti-naked person, but I’m not a big fan of it either unless there’s a reason for it. I hate stripping down to a paper robe at the doctor’s office with nothing underneath and more than that, I hate going into surgery and being naked and THEN unconscious. That freaks me out. I don’t walk around the house naked, I don’t air dry – I always wrap myself in a towel when I get out of the shower and I remove my towel when I’m ready to get dressed. If I sleep naked, I wake up in a panic because I don’t know where I am. Every. Single. Time. Maybe I was a prostitute in a previous life and I’m experiencing leftover occupational hazard.
I’m comfortable being naked before, during and after sex. How much light is in the room is never an issue. Morning, noon or night, makes no difference and if it IS night, the lights don’t need to be off. I like naked skin, can appreciate it’s softness, especially the skin that’s not exposed to daily elements. The softness of a female breast, a buttock, that narrow divet below your pelvic bone.
But there’s a time and place for nakedness and standing in my kitchen eating a plate of spaghetti or sandwhich or even a bowl of cereal? That’s not the time or place, at least not for me. But then again, neither is Queen Street, on a lovely springy-summer day, and yet that’s where I found myself around quarter to two this afternoon.
Is it as much of a cliche if you pronounce something a cliche in advance? The reporter asked me while I stood in the booth in my naked glory how I felt and I replied that as much of a cliche as it might be, it felt oddly liberating.
And it did.
So while I might choose to prance around my house in cute little boy shorts and a tank top rather than jumping on the naked train, to be fair, from now on, no one can call me prudish for not being naked, because guess what?
Today, I was naked on Queen Street.