Sunday, July 22, 2012

Portland, Hippies, Firefighters and Lots of Nudity


So I had these beautiful, blissful few months where I thought I had mastered my metabolism. And as someone who has struggled to remain in a normal weight range since before puberty, the feeling was better than all the riches in the world. I thought maybe I was one of those rare freaks of nature whose metabolisms shoot up, rather than plummet, when they turn 30. In reality, I owed my brief ability to eat like a sumo wrestler to the hot yoga room I was spending 4.5 hours a week in.  I was also walking absurd lengths to reach all the delicious things I was eating. So while I thought I had beaten the game, in reality, I was just playing it right.

Then I got the flu, moved by myself, had to be a single dog mom for awhile while Mr. W was on the road, and lost my motivation to move. The weight flew back on in unsightly bulges and robbed me of the one thing I’d managed to master through my body struggles: my confidence. And by God, after everything I put my poor self-esteem through, I felt I deserved it. I just had to find a minute to get off my ass.

And then my confidence was shocked back into me, against my will, in a matter of 48 hours. And I owe it all to Portland.

I had a rigid plan for the day of my departure to Portland to visit my sister wife and G:  wake up early, finish packing, get to work at 9 instead of 10, work at the speed of light, come collect the dog, and be on the road by 6 PM.  But I was so excited to see my girls, I took too much Melatonin on Thursday night and I slept until 9, thus single-handedly destroying my entire plan. I saw my phone, immediately texted my boss that I was running late, and started the mad dash to get ready.

As I ran around, fire alarms from various parts of the building went off left and right, scaring poor neurotic Dexter. I knew the fire department would be around that day testing the alarms and would be entering my apartment later, so I made a new plan: pack at lightning speed, take Dexter to the doggie daycare a mile from work, collect him and head straight for the freeway.

“Pack at lightning speed” means multi-task. So, after my shower, I stood at my laptop wearing nothing but jeans, clicking away on my laptop looking up directions to G’s new place as I rubbed my Jergens Natural Glow all over my upper body in an attempt to fake a tan.

And it was that precise moment in time that two firefighters burst into my apartment after a brief half-assed “knock” on the door. I was literally standing in front of them topless rubbing lotion on myself. It was too much for my brain to bear. I froze, losing the ability to speak or move. They apologized repeatedly and slammed the door.

“Just a minute,” I whimpered weakly.

As I was leaving for work minutes later (fully dressed), I took the elevator down with Dexter’s leash and my suitcase handle in one hand and a smelly bag of garbage in the other. The elevator stopped on the 4th floor. In marched the two firefighters who’d seen the goods, along with two more. The two who hadn’t seen me took one look at me and grinned at the other two. It was clear that, not only had word spread of the incident, they knew I was the flasher. I tried to blend into the wall, but my smelly garbage gave me away…as did my dog who chose that time to sniff one of the men’s crotch.

Luckily, Portland has the ability to erase a lot of stress from my soul because of the two wonderful women I visit there. And the next afternoon, G and I were laughing at my misfortune over happy hour in the sun. She then informed me that she had a surprise for me before ordering me a second round. I’d already had a glass of wine while she foiled my hair earlier, so I was feeling mighty fine. My accidental flash was a world away.

 G wouldn’t tell me what the surprise was, but she’d told me to pack a swimsuit. We pulled up in front of an old brick building. opened the door and were flooded with the smell of incense. A middle aged hippie guy greeted us warmly, and G checked us in.

“We have appointments for massages,” she said. I barely had time to tell her she shouldn’t have before we were on our way back to check the place out.

“It’s a spa, but they have this amazing outdoor soaking tub,” she said. “It sounded so great, I couldn’t resist.”

“You’re an angel,” I said, reaching for the swimsuit in my bag. Then the middle-aged hippie barged into the dressing room, which surprised us, because of the obvious gender differences. He asked if he could give us a tour of the place. Confused, we agreed.

He led us out to the soaking tub, and it was then we realized this “spa” was actually a nudist establishment. Several middle aged men lay sprawled out in lounge chairs, letting it all hang out and soaking up the sun. A single old lady relaxed in the giant hot tub, naked as the day she was born.

I looked at G. Her eyes were huge. Middle Aged Hippie left us to change… into nothing.

“I’m so sorry,” G whispered. “It said the pool was clothing optional, but I didn’t think there would be dudes out there.”

We realized that if we put our swimsuits on, we’d look like jackasses. I didn’t know what to do. Here I was, the least confident I’d ever been about my body, expected to parade it around in front of strangers. We hashed it out and decided, at last, to go topless.

I covered up with a towel until the last possible moment. I set it down in a chair, sucked in my stomach, and walked across the patio to the soaking tub, avoiding eye contact with everyone. G and I relaxed and chatted for a few minutes, then lifted ourselves out of the tub to cool off. I leaned back, trying to make myself look skinnier. Then I looked around and realized that nobody gave a shit. No one was even looking at me, much less making horrified faces. I stopped giving a shit, too, and just enjoyed the feeling of the sun on my bare skin in places it had never seen. It was freeing, awesome, and yes… straight out of Portlandia.

My massage therapist was an even older hippie, and he was wonderful. He didn’t even say a word when the three glasses of wine caught up to me and I dozed off and drooled on his foot. And afterward, I felt amazing in more ways than one. There’s nothing quite like two instances of unexpected nudity to force you to get over your body hang-ups. I’m far from perfect, but damn it, nobody threw up. In fact, those firefighters looked pretty pleased, after they got over their shock.

I’m now moderating my junk food and back in the hot yoga room. If this is what gets thrown at me when I let ten pounds creep on and let my confidence suffer, I'm not about to tempt fate by really letting myself go.

3 comments:

achicknamedcarl said...

This whole post is amazing. You poor thing! One time I got locked out of my apartment when the fire alarm went off, and because I had been in the shower, I was wearing nothing but booty shorts and a tank when I had to beg the firefighters to break open my door. You still win.

Also, I totally get feeling a lack of confidence, but you looked GREAT at happy hour a few weeks ago!!

Mike Barbre said...

I'll never forget when you told me you drooled on his foot. I'm still laughing about that one. Killer story.

Wearmanyhats said...

I loved this post!
Funny, funny and more funny.

 
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