The Things I Do When I’m Naked
You were expecting something more exciting than laundry.
If I tell somebody I’m naked at eleven in the morning, they never picture me trying to get a sock out of a fitted sheet.
They picture something else.
I know because I can hear the little pause after I say it. A half-second where their mind leaves the conversation and goes looking for a better one.
“What are you doing?”
“Laundry.”
“Oh.”
Yes. Oh.
The washing machine is open. The basket is on the floor. I have a fitted sheet wrapped around one ankle because it fell out when I picked up the load, and somewhere inside that sheet is a sock I’ve been hunting for since yesterday. I shake one corner. Nothing. I turn it inside out. There it is, stuck in the elastic like it pays rent.
That is one thing I do when I’m naked.
I find socks.
I don’t even have the satisfaction of washing fewer clothes. I still wear them when I leave the house. I still end up with towels, sheets, and a shirt I wore for twenty minutes because I forgot I was cooking and leaned against the counter. I stand in front of the machine sorting a pile of laundry while wearing none of it. Sometimes that makes me laugh. Most days I’m trying to decide if one gray shirt is dark enough to go with the black load.
The machine starts filling. I lift the empty basket and carry it back through the house. The handle presses a line into my palm. I set it down in the bedroom, where I remember why I came in here in the first place.
My glasses.
They aren’t on the nightstand. I checked under a book, but I can see it hasn’t moved. I go into the bathroom. I squint at the sink. Searching for glasses without glasses is an especially stupid way to spend a morning. Being naked doesn’t improve my chances.
I find them on the kitchen counter beside the toaster.
Of course.
The toast is already cold. I put it back down for a few seconds, then stand there listening for the click because I know exactly what happens when I decide I have time to do one more thing. Burnt bread. Open window. A kitchen that smells like my bad judgment for an hour.
While I wait, I look at my phone.
A message: What are you doing right now?
I could answer while waiting for toast. That is the full truth. I could add naked, and suddenly the answer would sound like I’m suggesting something.
I type: Trying not to burn breakfast.
That gets a laughing face. Nobody asks for a photograph of the toast.
The toaster clicks. I pull the bread out by one corner, too quickly, and drop it onto a plate. One side is darker than the other. I butter it anyway. I stand at the counter eating while a few crumbs fall onto the floor I swept yesterday.
I see one by my foot. I pick it up. Then I see another. Now I’m sweeping again because bending down for one crumb somehow turned into noticing the entire kitchen.
One crumb becomes the floor, and the floor becomes another job I did not mean to start.
I leave the broom by the wall and carry the plate to the sink. There’s a mug in there from last night. I wash it, then the plate, then the butter knife. Water runs over my fingers. A drop lands on my stomach. I dry my hands and leave the dish towel hanging crooked from the oven handle.
There are practical rules for being naked at home. I keep a towel near the chair before I sit down. If it’s in the wash, I get another one. I’m not making a ceremony of it. I sit on a towel because I like clean furniture and because bare skin on a warm chair gets sweaty fast.
The kitchen requires a little more thought. Hot grease doesn’t care what you believe about body freedom. I stand back from the pan. If I’m frying something that spits, I put on an apron. It looks ridiculous from behind. It works.
I also have to answer the door sometimes.
No dramatic scramble. I hear the knock, check who it is, put something on, and open it. A delivery driver wants to hand me a box, not participate in my morning. Then I close the door, put the box down, and probably spend five minutes trying to peel the shipping tape off with a fingernail before I remember I own scissors.
The house doesn’t stop being a house because I’ve taken my clothes off.
The refrigerator still makes that noise. A bill still sits on the counter. The trash bag still tears if I lift it by the wrong corner. I still open the fridge, stare into it, close it, and return ten minutes later to see if lunch has arrived on its own.
The tasks do not change. My body does not become an invitation. Only the clothes are gone, and suddenly some people decide the whole scene belongs to a different category.
That is the part I find strange. Not that I make toast naked. That anybody thinks the toast becomes erotic because I am not wearing pants.
Some mornings I catch myself in the bathroom mirror while I’m brushing my teeth. I’m fifty-seven. The gray hair is where it is. My stomach is there. I don’t have a speech for my reflection.
I lean closer to the sink so toothpaste doesn’t drip on the floor. I rinse the brush. I notice a smear on the mirror and rub it with the edge of a towel. It spreads. I should have used glass cleaner.
There was a time when I would have stood there longer, looking at what I wanted to change. Even alone, I could inspect myself as if somebody were waiting for a verdict. Now I’m more likely to wonder where I put the glass cleaner.
That doesn’t mean I love every angle of myself. I don’t. It means I can notice my stomach and still get on with cleaning the mirror.
By afternoon, the washing machine is done. I pull out the sheet. It’s twisted around a towel, and a damp sock falls onto my foot. I hang the sheet over my arm and carry the basket toward the dryer. The floor is cool. The dryer door sticks. I have to give it that short, irritated tug I always give it.
People can make nudity sound like one long moment of being seen. Most of my naked hours are spent doing things nobody would want to watch twice.
I fold towels.
I forgot the reason I walked into a room.
I stand at the counter eating another piece of toast.
When the dryer starts, I go back for the sock on the floor. It has landed beside the empty basket. I bend down, pick it up, and toss it in with the rest of the load.
