Dressed

When I was small, I dressed very slowly. Not that I moved slowly, but I changed clothes to allow for as little skin as possible to be exposed. This elaborate ritual was an overreaction to my mother's modesty lessons. Largely, though, it was fear, induced by my father's lurid warnings of men who might be looking in my window, and not seeing just a little girl. I didn't completely understand his meaning, but I knew to be afraid, even if I was alone, with the door closed, the blinds shut, the drapes pulled tight and the lights off. How much more so when I was trying on clothes in a store dressing room. Which irritated my mother to no end, not because I was being modest, but because I dawdled so long.

For my mother, the only time I could remove underwear, save to put fresh on, was taking a bath, and sometimes for a doctor in his office. I slept in long nightgowns, and underpants. Always. As a toddler, in a bubble bath, with a wig of foam, my brothers were allowed in to see only if I left my underpants on in the tub.

All a bit paranoid, if erring on the right side, I suppose. But I have to wonder if there was some history, some transgression, there. One that brushed past me, as I felt the heat of the beast, hot breath on my belly, a near shame that, perhaps, protected me.

The skills, eventually brought up to speed, stood me in good stead when I had to dress instantly in the Army. In the morning, we were woken by speakers, "Wake up Charlie Company!" since we had to be decent by the time the angrily respectful male Drill Sergeants hit the floor. Shortcuts and efficient choreography long ingrained meant I was never caught out, always the first done, the most dressed, no threat. (We heard tales of Drill Sergeants losing their careers for indiscretions with recruits, the attitudes of the Drills indicated these were true, and the temptation much guarded against, by aggressively wide margins, by our Drills.)

Which also meant, when modeling for art classes, I went from nude:posed to clothed:observer in tiny seconds, much to the ease of myself and the art students. They expressed gratitude, telling me of other models who, on breaks, walked around the room, looking at their work, stark naked, which was very disconcerting to them. I went from object, to person-to-talk-with by joining their clothed state, restoring the balance after leaving the pedestal.

Much the same in the locker room at work. Nothing irritates more than that one girl who gets completely naked to change into scrubs in the morning. It's gauche, awkward, inexplicable, that breaking of the mutual illusion of privacy. Many of the other women complain their contempt and confusion at the exhibitionist - "Why does she DO that!?" My very thoughts. Why? And why does it feel so intrusive? I don't mind so much, I roll my eyes and focus on my own quick change, done with no nudity involved. I think less of them, avoid them later, wonder what kinks in their road led them to there.

I know which ones lead me to my flexible, cautious sense of modesty.

Aunt Alma poo poo'd my hiding as a small child on vacation, in her care. Her dismissal of my shame didn't work then, but it sprouted later. One never knows what a child will remember, will take into their heart, save for spring.