DC Provincialism to DC Perversion--The Underwear Story
I sometimes sit in my underwear. By that I don't mean that (sometimes) I wear underwear. What I want to relay is that sometimes I sit in my living wearing (nothing but) underwear.
Big news? You bet. I was not raised in a naked house. Quite the contrary, I c
an't remember even once (in my life) exiting my childhood bedroom (or bathroom) and not wearing (at least) shorts/trousers, a shirt & underwear. I'm sure that, even as a baby, I never wore diapers sans additional apparel. The first time I entered a swimming pool without a t-shirt was probably at the age of 18.
All of this over-dressing is (of course) because I was raised a modest protestant. "Pride cometh before a fall," or "Pride is a fatal flaw," flew from my mother's mouth 12 to 88 times per day. En route to the grocery store, while at the ironing board and when reading my straight-A report cards....she never failed in inculcate the message: Pride is evil. Modesty is divine.
After ten years of living alone in dorm rooms, city (and suburban) apartments, army barracks and (even) more apartments, I moved to a house on a lilly-lined lane. Neighbors throw block parties. They erect electrical lit-up (giant) candy canes and (straw) mangers on their lawns (at Christmas time). They call you a racist when your dog barks at their children (sorry....wrong story). The spirit which emanates from this lane is, generally speaking, a prime example of what my friend CH (in NYC) refers to as "DC provincialism." CH, via email, recently summed up the mores of DC living, "People are shamed into good behavior."
But with shame comes perversion. Enter me, in my living room, wearing nothing but my undies...relaxing at the dining table and staring out at the sunny (late-afternoon) lilly-lined lane. How perfect it feels....it is simultaneously relaxing and exhilarating....I, the pervert in his underoos, immodestly spy the silent street.
I've only been doing the underwear sans everything else bit for about three weeks now. Never--even when living in NYC apartments w/ window views of brick walls--have I pranced naked from the shower. I just don't do it. This, my private little pleasure of the past three weeks (embraced for 5 to 13 minutes daily), is the closest I've ever been to exposing my living or dining furniture to my birthday suit. If I need to justify it....it is summer, it is hot and air conditioning (electricity) is expensive.
Here's the bigger news: Today...just this afternoon...less than an hour ago....I got busted. Perhaps this why everyone engages in deviant behavior. We want to get caught. We want to go down. We want to be set free of our dirty obsessions. Here's the recap:
I did/was/am/do.....Sitting at table, staring at sunny lilly-lined lane. Smiling at dogs as they sleep on the floor. Stretch in chair. Slouch a bit. Look down at my toes. Watch middle age woman (who lives across the street) stop (for 10+ seconds) and gaze at me through large (very large) living room window as she walks to her Lexus SUV (the one I backed into last week) that is parked in the street (directly in front of large window). Shriek in terror (I do, at least). Fall forward from chair to the floor (landing on knees). Place my self on all fours--just below the height at which the window begins shooting upwards. (I) resemble an elderly Rhino. Crawl three feet. Turn right. Crawl 15 additional feet. Pause to notice dog hair accumulating near closet door. Crawl remaining distance to bedroom. Jump to feet, close blinds, jump in bed and pull all sheets and covers over my face. Busted.
Now, I sit in the dark (fully-clothed) and type this blog...hoping a cathartic release will free all guilt recently accumulated for violation of my mother's pride principles. I await the stapling of Xeroxed flyers (w/ circumlocutor's face pic prominently featured) to telephone polls on said lilly-lined lane. The shame which leads to good behavior prevails.
