Naked

"Ren Fest was made for you!"

I roll my eyes. The geeky men in my life have long been on a quest to get me to attend a Ren Fest. As with their quest to get me to play D&D, I've managed to hold firm. I've heard every possible explanation of why I would love them, but this guy is reasonably charming and we're on our way back to my apartment so I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Why would I love Ren Fest?"

Surprisingly he doesn't go for the historical reenactments, the wordplay, the unselfconscious geekiness that occurs at Ren Fests (these are all reasonable arguments people men have made to me over the years.)

Nope, instead he just goes right for it. "Because you could actually wear clothes that would look good on you."

You know the expression "my jaw dropped"? I always thought it was an exaggeration. I grew up as the Liberal Democrat child of two Tea Party Republicans. I know that when someone says something absurd your jaw doesn't drop. Your eyes roll. Your head shakes. Your feet carry you out of the room. But jaw-dropping? Doesn't happen.

Except this time it does.

Because, yeah, while I'm at home I have a slight tendency to live in leggings and a Cosby sweater. But when I'm out on a date? Trust me, I can bring it. I know exactly what to emphasize (uh, boobs).

Tonight, for example, I'm wearing a red dress that makes me feel like Joan from Mad Men. Yeah, that Joan.

But apparently while I'm going for a vibe of unselfconscious sexiness with a dash of waittillyouseewhatI'vegotonunderneath! what I'm actually projecting is more of a vibe of Wench! Get me another ale. 

***

I can count, on one hand, the number of people who have seen me naked. 

It's not because I'm a prude or because I dislike sex. 

Both of those suggestions are, in fact, laughable.

Yeah, we all know where this is going. 

I hate writing about weight and body image issues because, you know, this isn't Seventeen. I turn thirty this year and I feel like I should have this shit figured out. Or at least be able to better hide the fact that, when it comes to things like being naked in front of men I like, I'm a black hole of insecurity.

But then I go over to a friend's house to hang out with my lady friends and we spend the entire night talking about a TED talk about self-objectification. How, even among some of us who are with long-term, committed partners who adore us, we still have nights, days, weeks, where we simply cannot get out of our own heads. And instead of being able to come home and make dinner or watch a movie or have sex while taking all of our clothes off we're wondering if we should skip dinner because we had a burrito for lunch, counting the number of calories in this glass of wine and weighing it against what we did at the gym that afternoon, or chewing gum between meals because we're actually still hungry. 

Here's something sort of crazy. I can't even get worked up over the unfairness of this situation. I have zero desire to start lambasting the paradigm of patriarchal normative structure. I don't even want to bring up photoshopping in magazines or beauty standards, or whether or not BMI is just another way for us feel badly about ourselves (ugh, please). 

Let me be very clear about this. While hanging out with smart, engaged, interesting women I have zero desire to discuss feminist theory. 

The women I hang out with are tremendously capable, brilliant, confident women. They're quickly making headway in their various careers, are socially and civically engaged, are well-read and articulate and interesting. 

And about 80% of them are completely neurotic in some way when it comes to their bodies. 

The reason I can't work myself into a lather about how we got to this point is because it makes me inexpressibly sad that we are here. 

***

You know you've made significant strides in weight loss when your corset no longer fits. 

I'm standing in my closet, in front of a full-length mirror, trying on every piece of lingerie I own. It's been, um, awhile since I've had any reason to even think wearing any of this and now that I finally do I come to the sudden, startling conclusion that after losing nearly thirty pounds, none of it fits. None if it. Jesus. My bras don't even fit anymore (and cue horrifying montage of what my boobs must have looked like over the past few months) Realizing that I'm in danger of running significantly late, I start to consider calling and cancelling on the guy. That line from The Smiths song This Charming Man pops into my head. 

I would go out tonight

but I haven't got a stitch to wear. 

I am actually thinking about cancelling on this guy because there's a slight possibility that we'll end up together and that if we do, I'll be caught without my battle armor. 

For the record, I do recognize the inherent fucked-up-ness of using the phrase battle armor in any context regarding one's sex life. I mean, the only place it might be appropriate is if one has a Beowulf fetish (I don't). But the fact of the matter is that, staring down the barrel of literal (and figurative! Layers.) nakedness, I would rather spend Saturday night in the house, in my leggings and Cosby sweater, alone. 

Standing there half-dressed and completely indecisive I get a text saying "Hi. I'm outside." and realize that I've dithered too long. I quickly pull on my red dress, the one that makes me look like Joan from Mad Men and hastily put my makeup on. I'm desperately reaching for some sort of moment of public-radio insight, some triumphant moment where I'll realize something about the patriarchal normative structure and my body and I'll walk out the door with a newfound confidence in myself. 

Ha. Yeah, that only happens on This American Life. Instead I rush out the door knowing full well that if we do go home together I'll spend most of the night in my own head, trying to get out of the incessant loop of backchat and simply enjoy myself. 

At least I've got the dress. There's nothing bad he can say about it.