My Aunt Luna is a big-hearted retiree who volunteers at the hospital and makes quilts for homeless people. And each summer she bares that big heart, along with the rest of her. She's a nudist.
Yesterday I phoned her at the Skins 'R Us campground. "Does it sound like I'm wearing clothes?" she asked. I squeaked out a yes only because my brain reeled at the idea that while I marched through my daily routine bound by layers of transdermal textiles, my elderly aunt was cavorting out yonder, loose as Zeus on a moose.
"Come visit," she chirped, and then pitched the joys of camping and hiking nekkid until I gave in. Her folksy twang made nekkid sound downright cute, as in toddlers running nekkid through the lawn sprinkler. Sometimes, I'm an idiot. The word is NAKED! As in Not A Kind Epidermal Display.
In a few minutes I'll be at the campground. I glance in the rearview mirror - why in purple-pink heavens did I squander an hour futzing with my hair and makeup? Good thing I haven't shaved my legs since giving it up for Lent in 1982. The extra fur is comforting. Blend, I just want to blend.
On the radio I catch Martha and the Vandellas blasting out "Dancin' in the Street." …are you ready for a brand new beat?
Yeah…NO! Not if the brand new beat involves tromping the wild woods in nothing but sneakers and sunscreen. Obviously, I lack the nude hiker chromosome. If our bodies are temples, then mine has dented siding, porches that sag, and corners where generations of pale epithelial cells have lived their short lives in darkness. Plunge those babies into broad daylight without protection and they'll cower like pathetic, blind moles - no pun intended.
So I've come prepared. From the passenger seat I grab my zinc oxide with an SPF of 195, and squeeze out a dab. What?? It's electric blue?!? The color puts a crimp in blending, but I smear some on my nose. The blind moles in the temple will have to fend for themselves.
Lucky for me, my Avon lady had a special on camouflage paint. Keeping one eye on the road, I spread the dark goop on both legs. Aw, #$%&! Now I've smudged my new shorts. But the paint hides my tattoos! During my circus years I got hand imprints tattooed on both ankles so I was easier to catch in our trapeze act. But thanks to the green paint, no one will gawk today!
I brought my orange Frost Heaves baseball cap. I know, the team name sounds like a nauseous snowman, but it was this, or my sombrero, which has an abysmal blend quotient. Binoculars and a bird book are also in tow. With any luck, I'll spot a white breasted nuthatch, maybe a tufted titmouse. Hey hey, no snickering. Those are real bird names.
Why is Aunt Luna a nudist? Granted, fashions for "mature" women are ugly, but is nudity the answer? Possibly. At least until cataract surgery. After that, all bets are off.
She mentioned a swimming pool. I murmur a prayer to any on-call deities that a slide or diving board have been thoughtfully omitted. Meanwhile, a little voice whispers that the cammo paint job may possibly hinder effective poolside blending.
Aunt Luna talked about families camping there but, dang! my hearing aid battery cut out during the conversation. Did she say there were lots of youngsters? Or lots of gangsters?? Come on, every guy grab a girl…
I imagine the mob would like nudism. I mean, those shiny suits and all that jewelry must be unbearably hot, especially if Guido and the boys are packin' heat. Man, when was the last time you said "packin' heat"? I've got to quit watching the Simpsons.
Here we are! I pull in and park behind a white limo with an Illinois license: Da Boss. Beyond the nearby fence I hear the ka-bonga of a diving board, the "Wheee!" and splash of someone on a slide. There'll be swingin' and swayin'…
No auntie in sight. I emerge from the car, clutching my supplies, and readjust the orange Frost Heaves cap with the bill squarely over my electric blue nose. My gooped-up legs are itchy but blending nicely with the shrubbery. The limo door opens, and a meaty, blue-veined leg plants an Italian loafer onto the gravel.
Holding my breath, I casually open the bird book and stare at a random page, feigning interest in the text on red-bellied woodpeckers native to these parts.
A chance for folks to meet…
Copyright © 2006 Mary Tompsett
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