Body Conscious Musings

There are only a few benefits that come with getting toward an ‘older’ age.  And I’m not talking about the Super Gold Card old, or the old age when we think we’re successful by achieving a disabled parking card status so that one can finally drive straight into the best parking spaces in busy car parks, shopping centres and burgeoning city streets.

                   

In fact, I’m not talking about being anywhere near THAT old.  I am referring to being just a ‘little’ older than being younger.  Like the age I am now, thirty-eight-something.

I was reminded of this when in the swimming pool changing rooms this morning and could not help but notice a young lady whose gym bag was next to mine on the bench.  She was obviously in the process of dressing for her work day after having had a cleansing shower post her gym or swimming pool work out.  Usually I don’t notice who is next to me in the changing rooms at that busy rush hour in the mornings, everyone is so busy that you are in your own world going through the well practiced routine of showering and changing.  Today, her being next to me was made obvious by the manner in which she was attempting to dress.  Well, the awkward, time consuming and difficult way in which she was trying to dress.  I could not help but stop for a moment and glance subtly over to observe what was happening.

The contortionist manner in which she was changing did have me ponder of “why bother?”  It looked so jolly awkward and difficult.  She was bent over, in half, as bent half over as the Old Woman in the Shoe was; you know what I mean, bent at the waist so that her legs were vertical from the ground up, but from the waist up she was horizontal with her head and eyes looking directly down at the rather grubby, concrete floor in women’s changing room.  Or perhaps she was just checking her toe nails out?

Rather like this  ..

                          

No, I dismissed the fleeting toe nail theory quickly as draped over this ‘bent pin’ body was a very large bath towel.  So large was it that it completely covered all her body except the feet at the bottom and her head which had to be visible as she was in the process of anxiously looking and feeling around in her gym bag for her under clothes.  As she rummaged around in her gym bag  I was tempted to lean over and say, “Can I help you with that?”, but thought better of it.  Heaven knows the fright that would have given her while she was in her own little private world under that giant’s towel.

There was a sense of desperation though and for another moment I thought that perhaps she had discovered her underwear was not in the bag but, as many of us do, left neatly on the bed at home where it was put prior to final gym bag packing earlier that morning or late the night before.

But no, suddenly an unpretentious pair of matching knickers and brassiere emerged and whilst one was put carefully on the change room bench the other was now to be somehow attached to the body without the giant’s towel slipping or sliding off the body, baring yet more skin than the feet, hands and face.

Now it should be noted that the women’s’ changing room does have private cubicles for those who do prefer some modesty but it would appear the six or so cubicles were already taken by others thereby meaning this poor thing had the dubious job of dressing among the other twenty or so ladies who, without any thought of modesty, just rush to the showers while still wrapping their standard size towels around them, then rush back out to the bench, dry body off without even contemplating if someone else is looking.

But I did begin to feel for this young thing; she would have been in her early twenties, for it was plain to see that she was going to an extra ordinary amount of grunting and groaning and clasping and grabbing to get her bra and knickers on whilst at the same time not allowing the giant’s towel to slip one inch for fear of skin being exposed and someone actually seeing her body.  It took forever, with several desperate grasps of the towel when she felt it may possibly drop. 

Once the underwear cladding had been achieved it was then time to put the rest of the day clothes on still maintaining no chance of any of the other women in the changing room seeing any part of the body.

During all this time I had gone to shower, returned, totally dried myself, gone to the mirror, dried my hair, dressed and was applying lipstick.  Effortlessly, smoothly, without stirred fears and anxieties, relaxed and with little else on the mind except the anticipation of the latte awaiting in the café.

But finally, underwear attired, dress attired, the Young Thing audibly sighed, stood upright and withdrew the towel.  To expose a perfectly formed body in workday clothing that began approximately two centimeters below the buttocks, finished about two centimeters above the nipple line and clung to the body so tightly that every male driver who would happen to drive past her in the street that day would create traffic mayhem by the head twisting caused as they drove by.

On a cold day like this.

Adorned on the feet were a pair of heels so high that I’m sure the local physio would be rubbing hands greedily at the anticipation of yet another sprained ankle injury due to modern day shoe fashion.

                           

So much effort.  So much time. To cover so little skin.  To expose so much skin. To every Tom, Dick and Harry.  Yet to cover up for every Pam, Sue or Mary.   

Huh?  I don't get it.  Why bother? 

Gosh.  I am so very glad I am that teeny bit older. Totally unbody conscious. Wiser.  Nonchalant.  Indeed, that situation is so contrary to my mature countenance.

I couldn't care less who in the women’s changing room saw my skin; and yet care very much more than my bench neighbour this morning that anyone outside the changing room sees so little of it.  For that they are no doubt all very grateful.

But, who cares!