The alarm rings at 6:30 a.m., an unwelcome disturbance into the brief respite that is my sleep. Slipping out of the warm comfort of my bed, goosebumps break out on my thighs when my bare feet hit the unexpectedly cold tile floor. I open the blinds to the first welcoming rays of a purple and orange sunrise and, as the warmth washes over my goosebump-y skin, I marvel at the joy of living alone in my room. Having slept in the nude for the past few years, I fear that a roommate who is more conservative than me would complicate matters and make me feel oddly uncomfortable for being comfortable with myself.
A roommate would turn the comfort and natural sensuality of nudity into the embarrassing and improper sexual side of nakedness. I am comfortable with my body, a feat that many humans never accomplish. I like my strong muscular thighs and I love my “ethnic” behind. I marvel at the strength and grace of my bare back, reminding me of a lion stalking her prey when I swim or crawl. I enjoy the way my abs look from a certain angle and it amuses me that my chest bounces when I use stairs. Is this a crime? Sometimes, society makes me think so.
Walking to my closet, I groan and resign myself to the necessary evil that is clothes. It isn’t that I think clothes are constricting or uncomfortable. Clothes do not make me sweaty. Nor do clothes limit my mobility. I am smart enough to buy comfortable clothes that look good on me. Clothes are also a definite symbol of status, ideals, economic status, level of conservativeness, etc. Take your pick. Indeed, clothes are a terrifying societal concept but those are not my reasons for preferring a more natural state.
You may ask, then, "why are you naked all the time?" Well, I’m glad you ask. I choose to not wear clothes because it reflects my inner personality and freedom. Because my skin is soft and feminine - with an appealing tan tone. Because each scar and “abnormality” tells a story of how I became who I am. Because the sporty broadness of my swimmer-shoulders contradicts the feminine fragility of a bare shoulder. Because although my body may not be perfect, it is mine and this is my freedom. I am not a perfect person, but I am free and a free-spirit.
Another groan and I choose my clothes. Red cotton underpants and a more red bra. The strap will dig into my left shoulder for the duration of the day like the strap of a heavy backpack, weighing me down with the knowledge I’m expected to retain. I love the color red because it complements my skin tone; because it is a passionate and stereotypically Latin-American color; because it makes me happy. Comfortable jeans that make my behind look better than usual and a figure-fitting red shirt. I am not uncomfortable, but I would prefer not to be wearing anything as I sojourn out of my room and traverse through a day of classes, lab, meetings, rehearsals, and meals. Walking from class to class, I shift uncomfortably under the weight of my clothes as I shift uncomfortably under the weight of the day’s responsibilities. I need to learn to say “no.” The hours crawl by and as the day passes from cool morning to sweltering afternoon of Columbia's freak weather, I lose items of clothing. Jeans become shorts and sneakers become flip flops. Baby-steps to inner comfort.
When the clock strikes 8 p.m., I walk back into my oasis for the first time since I left in the morning. I drop my backpack and textbooks onto my bed. Flip=slops are kicked off in glee. I drop my shorts and shirt onto the floor. Freedom. The freedom to be happy, healthy, active, productive, sane, social, bold, unashamed, and alive. Freedom to speak, think, act, sing, write, and move however I want. I am not a sex-crazed megalomaniac - I am not what society portrays “nudists” to be. I am just comfortable. Sitting in my windowsill (and on top of my desk), I bask in the glow and warmth of a red sunset while the left bra strap falls off my weary shoulder. A quick snap of the wrist and a flourish of the hand - I am free of this feminine confine. The stress of the day melts off my shoulders as the last red bra strap caresses the curve of my shoulder, past the telltale Hispanic scar from a tuberculosis vaccine.The pressure to be the responsible and intelligent woman I am expected to be washed away as the red cotton glides past the warm and sensitive flesh behind my knee, touching a small scar from a soccer game in my youth. Finally comfortable in my own skin, I lay my head upon my slightly scarred knees and hug myself, enjoying the pliable softness of my cheek against the roundness of my knees. Five minutes of calm and peace, indulging in the warm caress of the sun, before attempting the looming mountain of homework.
With the blare of a siren and the shot of a gun, I climb off my desk and settle into my seat. The soft blue cushion cradles my skin and the cotton fabric is a welcome hug. I open a textbook on my desk, feeling the sleek white pages on my forearms when I turn the page, and hold a pencil firmly in my hand as I plow through unchallenging problems. As I think, I trace my right collar bone with the tip of the pencil, enjoying the sensation of hard plastic gliding along the smooth bone towards the left collar bone. Moving on to writing in my journal, I repeat the same thinking-and-tracing movements unaware that I am marking myself with the dark blue ink that is staining my fingertips and wrists. The sun has dropped below the trees and has taken away the warmth and light. Before I shiver, I stand up to turn on the light, giggling at the unexpected cold tiles hitting my bare and sensitive feet. I walk across the floor, smiling as the silky bedsheets brush against the smooth skin of my thighs. Were I wearing clothes, I would never have felt them.
The light flickers on as the opening strains of a chord emanate from my computer. The initial vocalizations are lifted into the air and I snap my head toward the music. I find myself lost and twirling in small pirouettes and pas de bouree across the floor - unaware of my surroundings. I arch my back in a small chasse and turn to look at my slim left arm extending and stretching to an end - fragile and nimble fingers twirl slowly. Suddenly, as my pinky finishes that slow flicker, I twirl and extend both arms - leaning to my left with a sudden passion taking over me. Serenity in my face as I lean to my right arm, slowly, tenderly, with abandon. Until a knock is heard at the door. My peace has been breached and I am pulled back to reality. I’ve been dancing in the nude again.
Scrambling for my plush blue robe, I fasten it quickly and hastily cover myself as I ask “who is it?” Persistent knocking and a mumbled name reveal a friend, all too familiar with my nudity. She sits on my bed and asks homework questions, never once flinching at the sight of a bare curved shoulder when my robe slips because I did not do a good job of tying it ... again. The robe-to-skin contacts is like a lover’s tender caress and with every move, there is a new and soft sensation unknown to anyone but me. When I sit on the bed next to her, she does not move away when the warm flesh of my legs peeps through the slit in the robe and touches her own cotton-polyester blend covered leg. There is no disgust or shame. She accepts me for everything that I am and she has learned that there need not be a correlation between nudity and sex, but I am glad when she leaves and I can return my robe to the closet. Where all clothes belong.
As the stars rise and the lullaby of Columbia’s sirens sing me to sleep, I put away my school books and gladly climb into the cocoon of silk sheets. Enveloped in the ocean of blankets, I marvel at the freedom to feel the silk wrap around my legs and touch me so subtly it almost tickles. Were I wearing pajamas, this phenomenon would never occur. As I drift off to sleep in the sea of silk, I slowly extend my legs and then bring them to a fetal position. Purposefully searching for skin-to-sheet contact. My eyes close and I am happy to be free.
To be repeated again tomorrow.
