The best way to lose your inhibitions is to go for medical tests. You invariably have to take off your clothes. I seem to have perfected the art of a slow striptease.
Initially, I used to be painfully shy. In fact, my first encounter was as a teenager. I was asked to remove my blouse. It was one of those button-down tees, and the buttons were all in front – and the part of me being checked was my back.
The doc stood in front of me. Wicked sod…but, boo, the Coming of the Cleavage was merely a gleam in my revolutionary mind…he beat a hasty retreat behind. It sounds awful put like this!
What I have been through in the last few years by way of tests could make for my own magnum opus.
I have had hot water poured in my ear, I’ve been made to lie at the edge of the bed with my head hanging down, I have run in one place with my eyes closed. I have had long things pushed inside various parts of me and there is that moment when those little vacuum things are placed on various parts of my body. The assistant repeats some unintelligible numbers. The doctor says, “Hmm…” as he tries to figure out my statistics, and not even the one that normal mortals do.
It looks like my stripping saga will continue. Yesterday I had to visit the doc. I was in pain for two days. So I stood there, removed some clothes and lay on the table. After the examination, I continued in the supine position. I watched the ceiling – it appeared to be watching me intently, its white starkness somehow seemed to understand me. The doc broke the reverie and almost lustful bonding I was forging with the ceiling. She said, “Do you mind getting into your clothes?”
Yes, I have become this comfortable. I suspect that if I were to go for an eye checkup I might just ask the ophthalmologist, “Shall I strip?”
However, the thought of my body becoming a series of numbers, graphs, technical mumbo-jumbo is frightening.
I am unashamedly a body worshipper. There is something about skin and flesh and colours. I am fascinated by how people treat their bodies, how they carry themselves, how they deal with warts (which we all have to some degree).
I observe body language. The way the legs are crossed, the flick of the wrists, the turn of the head. I am not concerned about things like ideal, great, sexy. It is just how we feel about ourselves. How we embellish the body, clothe it, mask it, reveal it…
Do you realise we treat our mind as we do our body? We embellish it, clothe it, mask it, reveal it.
Ah, but minds have emotions. The body does too. It is expressive, articulate and, when I am burning with fever, I can legitimately announce, “I am hot!”