Thursday, June the 1st, 2006

The bastard child of Gautama Nuddha.

I went back and forth for a bit on this post because it was skirting the boundaries of TMI. And by “skirting,” I really mean “blatantly disregarding,” but unfortunately for you, it takes more than that to thwart me.

It all started at the onset of winter toward the end of last year. Getting tired of bitching about my high power bills—caused in no small part by my crappy electric space heater, which barely covers 10% of my tiny home—I decided to do something constructive about it. And so began a phase wherein the colder it got, the more layers of clothing yours truly had on.

It was a brilliant scheme… on paper. I am sorry to report that it didn’t help lower my power bills, and it made it ridiculously complicated to move around my abode.

Anyway, as time progressed, seasons changed. With the emergence of vividly coloured flowers and the first sightings of the hiked-up mini-skirt, the ambient temperature of my dwelling was steadily on the rise; which in turn resulted in those layers of fabric gradually being shed. But, as it turns out, this new scheme had progressed to bit more of a habit than I had originally anticipated. What started-off with coats, sweaters and shawls soon made headway… and now, I’m typing this out in the nude.

Yes, over the past few weeks, my wardrobe around home has been starkly minimal; or non-existent if you want to be pedantic about it. I am not sure if I’ve really pegged-down how I feel about this—though I must admit it feels very comfy most of the time. It has also—unsurprisingly—reduced the frequency of laundry-doing days quite substantially. Definitely, this is one of the better perks of living alone!

But it’s not all rosy.

For one, the whole “We know what you were doing” smirk I get when I answer the door… after that awkward pause… with my clothes hurriedly put on, inside-out, backside-front? gets old really soon. And as easy as it seems on paper, being nude requires a tremendous degree of comfort with your own body; one which I presumed I possessed, until I had the opportunity to really examine myself all the time. It’s sad, in an almost funny, catch-22 sort of way: Having no one to impress means you aren’t going to try. Not really trying means you won’t look very good. And looking good is central to attracting someone beside you worthy of impressing in the first place!

Brilliant… ly… sad.

And this final bit of news does not really help matters: If sources—ones that I trust—are to be believed, the number of cases of straight, single men in gyms abysmally tiny. Zero, in fact.

Hmm, I wonder.

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