The Thing About Public Nekkidity…

Here’s the thing.

If I’m standing there in the locker room, naked, I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to hear about your bad knees, your saccharine-sweet grandkids, the weather, your job, your husband, or anything else. I do not want to be your new best friend.

I don’t want to be looked at, stared at, commented to or about. Leave me alone until I have my clothes on. Then you can tell me about the outreach program you’ve started for “those poor kids, even the white ones,” or how your grandson learned to belch the alphabet and how you think it’s so cute. Once I’m dressed, I’m perfectly receptive to idle chatter about how cold the pool water is, how scummy the hot tub is, how horrible getting snow this time of year is, or even complaints about the crick in your back.

But if I’m naked, dripping wet and trying to dry off and get my clothes on, I am not a social animal. I do not want to acknowledge that there is anyone in the locker room other than myself.

Thank you.

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