Sunday, November 24, 2013

A Stripped-Down Glance: What's All the Racquet About?

The year was 2009 when I met the frienemy: the game of tennis. A love/hate relationship, the likes of which I'd never known. But probably not for the reasons you think.

Yes, some days I suck so badly I want to drive over my racquet and never see another fuzzy, neon ball. But that's just par for the course. Warning: more stupid sports analogies ahead. 

Let me set the scene: Most Mondays and every Thursday for the past 4+ years I've played indoor tennis at one of the local gyms in town. The facility is amazing -- it's temperature controlled, the nets are in excellent condition, and courts are always clean. However, there is one contributing factor to playing tennis here that gives me a tinge of anxiety each and every time I enter the place: the locker room is always full of naked women.

Let it be known that I'm no prude. I was raised going to Loehmann's, and changing in the communal dressing room was something I'd done since high school, but this goes well beyond.

I'm just not super comfortable with the sheer quantity of garment-less bodies standing between the locker room entrance and the bathrooms in the rear (heh, heh). It's only 63 steps, yet it feels like a slalom course that only Lindsay Vonn could maneuver.

Any sociology 101 student, would immediately note that the majority (but not all) of nakedly comfortable women in this particular setting are over the age of 60 and of Asian descent. I would like to ask them if this is a cultural thing, but frankly where would I look during our conversation? Were they always so comfortable wearing nothing but a smile in a fairly populated situation? Did this come on later in life and they are experiencing a new-found freedom? Am I way over analyzing this?


Just last week I saw a woman who actually bothered to wrap herself in a towel, but only from her waist down -- breasts unleashed and on the loose. She was blow drying her hair and in no hurry to get dressed. Or sometimes the more disturbing: boobs contained behind a towel, but an abundance of lady bits roaming free and exposed below. Why? Why? Why?

I realize that I'm the outsider -- the freak who is fully clothed in the locker room. Knowing that the best defense is a good offense, I use the bathroom, wash-up and intently stare at the floor as I skedaddle the 63 steps back out, being careful not to whack a stray nipple with my shoulder-slung racquet. The good news is if I have a terrible day on the courts, I just blame it on the scarring sights I saw on my way.

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

First-World Problems and My Imaginary Hostage Situation

When's the last time you read a book that really stuck with you? My answer is easy. Last week I finished a little treasure called House in the Sky by Amanda Lindhout. Loosely, it's the true memoir of a world traveler who finds herself in the wrong country at the wrong time. While the story line is gripping and stomach churning, I found myself luxuriating in my insulated, routine, cushy life. It's extremely unlikely I'll ever find myself kidnapped and tortured for ransom in a war-torn country, but if it were to happen right here in my suburban utopia, there are a number of things that would get me to spill the beans and beg the US government to pay off my abductors.




In no particular order:
  1. Make me watch Ghost...on a loop 
  2. Force feed me blue, feta, goat or swiss
  3. Have me help anyone over 5th grade with math
  4. Take away my Keurig
  5. Pick your toenails in my presence
  6. Put me in a bikini
  7. Insist I watch live TV, commercials and all
  8. Discontinue keratin treatments
  9. Leave me in a room with uncaged birds
  10. Force me to pay attention while my kids recite their dreams