You know you remember it. It started right around the time your mother blatantly left maxi pads in clear view in the bathroom, and you discovered both shaving and that awful baby powder deodorant that sadly so many have difficulty leaving in their youth. It likely first manifested itself in the gym l*cker room, the one in which you were supposed to shower but instead relied on Love's Baby Soft to eclipse your te*n pheromones. And most of us haven't been able to get rid of the need to cover our bodies in public since.
I spent a good bit of college exposing my bre*sts inappropriately [a number 1) mostly to make female friends grossly uncomfortable, and b number 2) don't think I don't thank my lucky stars that my time at college pre-dated the Girls Gone Wild and Nanny Cam Hidden in a Teddy Bear years.] But tipsy is as tipsy does, and sober l*cker room *n/dressing is an entirely different story.
The swimming has reminded me that it is indeed so. As a 32-year-old woman, I have noticed that I still spend countless minutes covering countless patches of skin while changing. It goes a little something like this:
-- Enter l*cker room, smile politely at size 2 worker outers in locker aisle
-- Put king-sized towel over bathing suit, tuck under arms
-- Attempt to maneuver and latch bra on top of this situation, causing taut Olga elastic to cut off all blood flow to right breast
-- Lose feeling in right side of body, causing discomfort and possibly drool
-- Remove bathing suit from underneath towel with only hand still circulating blood, via that old yank-the-tablecloth-off-without-smashing-dishes trick
-- Shimmy dry underwear up over damp skin, causing appealing catching and stretching of non-Botoxed flesh
-- Retuck right breast into bra after realizing above action caused Victoria to expose her Secret
-- Trip anywhere between two to three times over own foot
-- Put on both jeans and tee shirt, under and over said towel, respectively
-- Realize that if you were to have heart attack, multiple layers of cotton embarrassment would definitely be worse to EMTs than dirty underwear. (Mothers lie!)
-- Remove towel and shuffle off in horror as you realize size 2s have been studying your habits
-- Leave membership card behind in frenzy. Notice upon reapplication that staff have written "N*de McPrudes Alot" in the line reserved for your name.
Expended calories via numerous freestyle laps: 210
Expended calories via Maguyver-like manipulation of garments and skin: 127,107.56
And on Wednesday night I had tired of it. NO MORE, party people.
So post whip kick drills I stripped off my bathing suit and didn't even attempt to cover myself with said beach blanket. I'm pretty sure I mirrored one of those documentary-like tribal n*de pics in National Geographic, but I cared not. I basked in the ability to pat dry and pull on my underparts without sticking. Not yet that woman, the coworker who approaches you at the gym re: TPS reports in her birthday suit with a leg up on the communal stool, I was as close as I am ever going to get.
I was liberated. I was free. I was n*ked. And there was no baby powder deodorant in sight.
I would so celebratory high five you right now, but I'm pretty sure my towel would fall down.
I spent a good bit of college exposing my bre*sts inappropriately [a number 1) mostly to make female friends grossly uncomfortable, and b number 2) don't think I don't thank my lucky stars that my time at college pre-dated the Girls Gone Wild and Nanny Cam Hidden in a Teddy Bear years.] But tipsy is as tipsy does, and sober l*cker room *n/dressing is an entirely different story.
The swimming has reminded me that it is indeed so. As a 32-year-old woman, I have noticed that I still spend countless minutes covering countless patches of skin while changing. It goes a little something like this:
-- Enter l*cker room, smile politely at size 2 worker outers in locker aisle
-- Put king-sized towel over bathing suit, tuck under arms
-- Attempt to maneuver and latch bra on top of this situation, causing taut Olga elastic to cut off all blood flow to right breast
-- Lose feeling in right side of body, causing discomfort and possibly drool
-- Remove bathing suit from underneath towel with only hand still circulating blood, via that old yank-the-tablecloth-off-without-smashing-dishes trick
-- Shimmy dry underwear up over damp skin, causing appealing catching and stretching of non-Botoxed flesh
-- Retuck right breast into bra after realizing above action caused Victoria to expose her Secret
-- Trip anywhere between two to three times over own foot
-- Put on both jeans and tee shirt, under and over said towel, respectively
-- Realize that if you were to have heart attack, multiple layers of cotton embarrassment would definitely be worse to EMTs than dirty underwear. (Mothers lie!)
-- Remove towel and shuffle off in horror as you realize size 2s have been studying your habits
-- Leave membership card behind in frenzy. Notice upon reapplication that staff have written "N*de McPrudes Alot" in the line reserved for your name.
Expended calories via numerous freestyle laps: 210
Expended calories via Maguyver-like manipulation of garments and skin: 127,107.56
And on Wednesday night I had tired of it. NO MORE, party people.
So post whip kick drills I stripped off my bathing suit and didn't even attempt to cover myself with said beach blanket. I'm pretty sure I mirrored one of those documentary-like tribal n*de pics in National Geographic, but I cared not. I basked in the ability to pat dry and pull on my underparts without sticking. Not yet that woman, the coworker who approaches you at the gym re: TPS reports in her birthday suit with a leg up on the communal stool, I was as close as I am ever going to get.
I was liberated. I was free. I was n*ked. And there was no baby powder deodorant in sight.
I would so celebratory high five you right now, but I'm pretty sure my towel would fall down.
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