Naked Time
Neatorama (via kottke) has a list of famous authors who often wrote in the nude, mainly so as to be free of distractions and to hinder interruptions.
This makes so much sense to me.
By the time I get in the door at the end of the day all I want to do (in addition to pee) is strip off restricting, chafing, hot, uncomfortable layers of clothing. If I were a woodland creature, my habits and movements could be tracked by the blast-radius of shed apparel. It can’t be picked up until I cool down and breath.
I’m rarely cold but overly sensitive. My hair has to be swept up in a bun and pull my bangs back in a barrette, to completely get the feel of “anything” off and no longer touching me.
This need to remove all clothing trumps the urge to pee, and trumps hunger. It makes me desperate to leave work “on time” since I’ve probably been struggling since 11:30 a.m.
I can only then redress and sit down in clothes that are soft and loose or fitted enough to not cause bother. Normally I prefer an ambient temperature that allows for naked time, and to simply sit on something soft and hygienic, nudist colony style. It strips down facade and reminds me to write honestly. Like now, I want to write that little is as honest as being naked, but really, nothing also promotes self delusion or reveals projection quite like it.
Nudity can help you to be more kind, merciful, honest, proud, critical. It can maintain your posture because if you slouch you get tummy rolls. It can force you to not answer the door, not run to the store, to not sit on the couch instead of your desk chair. You can’t procrastinate by making a grilled cheese (without suffering the hot spatter) or taking out the trash. With hair up, you can not look for split ends or think about your next hair appointment.
A favorite game I had when I was little involved stripping naked, climbing up on a bed, jumping off and doing something akin to an airborne jumping jack, so as to not touch anything for one delicious second.
I regret writing this for the awareness it’s triggered. My boots are too hot. I can’t wiggle my toes. I can feel my waste band. Hair is heavy. My skin almost stings.
Only then could I reasonably have an expectation to sit at my desk and work.
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