I was wet and naked. You were dry and in uniform...
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I suppose you might have wondered why you were being approached by a naked, dripping girl in flip flops in the Bally's locker room. Indeed, you may have wondered, "Why doesn't this girl have a towel?"
Or, more appropriately, "Por que ella no tiene una toalla?"
This is a good question, in both languages. Allow me to explain.
I did have a towel. Unfortunately, that towel was locked in my locker along with any other form of clothing or other woven item that might have covered my private parts.
You see, I'd been in the pool. I was appropriately attired in the pool, as I must express that I am not an exhibitionist of any kind. Quite the opposite, in fact: I often wonder why women feel the need to be gratuitously naked in the locker room. Do you really need to be naked to apply makeup? To dry your hair? To ask me an inane question about the weather as I struggle to look sideways so as not to catch a glimpse of your nether regions?
You must understand, I was raised in Catholic schools and have earned myself a healthy fear of my own genitals. Not wanting to think about my own paraphernalia, I really don't want to be forced to confront that of a stranger.
In any case, my point is that I don't make a habit of parading my bare ass around public locker rooms. So when I chose to swim laps yesterday, rest assured that I was in fact wearing a very modest, granny-like one-piece bathing suit.
Upon exiting the pool and going to the sauna, I wrapped my towel around myself. I don't like parading around in a bathing suit much either, as the nuns taught me well that tight clothing leaves little to the imagination, and the Bally's clientele is not particularly one I want imagining anything about me. Good God, these are are strangers, after all.
Upon exiting the sauna, I had to cross through the pool room again. Woozy from the unrelenting sauna heat, I apparently did not fasten my towel well enough around my waist. It deserted me as I was crossing by the pool, and fell into a puddle of other-people's-after-pool-footwater. Yuk.
The good sisters also taught me that cleanliness is next to Godliness. I would just as soon wipe my own bare ass (or someone else’s) with my hand than infest myself with funky foot germs from Lord knows who and how many. Children swim in that pool, for Chrissakes – which is something I don’t like to think about when I’m in there, but it’s the gospel truth. Those little petri dishes and their hair-trigger bladders are allowed in the pool on weekends.
That being the case, I was left in a conundrum. I had no other towel, you see. I was also in a hurry. So, I decided that a quick, nekkid dash from my locker to the shower and back wouldn't be a big deal. Moving quickly enough, I might even dry myself off. And at least I had my flip-flops.
Sister Jeanne Marie and Co. having instilled in me a deeply ingrained appreciation for being neat and tidy, I of course opened my locker and put my soiled towel and wet bathing suit in it. I then locked it*, since I have no idea as to whether the Bally's clientele was privy to the same Catholic upbringing as I was – which is to say that some Godless folks might be prone to breaking Commandments, most notably the ones about coveting and stealing. Call me paranoid; I call myself a good old-fashioned Christian.
As it turned out, my naked dash to the shower wasn't so bad. Nobody saw me. I had a nice, soapy shower with Bally's crap-ass cheap foamy skin-drying soap, and made the trip back to my locker unscathed. Planning to dry myself quickly with a clean, extra T-shirt, I immediately fiddled with my lock in order to end my public nudity as expeditiously as possible. Unfortunately for me, the fates turned at that point. My trusty Master Lock simply
would not open
This had to be a mistake. Damnation, I just opened the godforsaken lock 10 minutes previously. I tried again. And again. And again.
No dice.
Now, I know what you're thinking (in addition to "Eres es una Catolica loca!"), but you're wrong. I did not forget my locker combination. For whatever reason, the combination simply didn't work. Perhaps my Master Lock had been possessed by the devil. I'll never know.**
I tried various combinations for a good 10 minutes, as well as the one I knew it was. Keep in mind (and as you noticed all too quickly), I'm naked here. The only good thing about standing there like an idiot in a public locker room while you're naked and dripping and trying to open a lock is that you have a little time to drip dry.
I will tell you that I did look around the locker room to see whether anyone had recognized my godawful plight. Everyone seemed studiously unaware of my dilemma, and since all the women in there were clothed I didn't really feel a burning motivation to prance up to any one of them in my birthday suit and explain the situation. And my cellphone was in my locker. With my underpants. And my damn towel, which at that point was seeming less and less infested with other people’s germs.
But then, as I was really about to panic and was considering removing a shower curtain to use as an impromptu plastic toga in order to find some help…
You!
Like a winged angel sent straight from the Heavens, glowing resplendently in the coveted gray Bally’s employee polo shirt, mop bucket gliding happily beside you, you entered.
You seemed a bit confused as I approached. I understand. I’m sure I looked a little frazzled (and a lot naked), and of course I explained everything in English the first time.
I might add that I have rarely been so happy I studied Spanish as I was yesterday, explaining my plight for the second time in your native tongue.
Now, I would first and foremost like to thank you for not laughing. I’m certain that you had yourself a good chuckle as you left the locker room, but you do get a heartfelt prayer from me tonight for sparing my feelings so bravely.
When you returned with the bolt cutters, I must say – and I’m not trying to be ungrateful here, truly – but I must say that I was a wee bit disappointed that you didn’t bring me a towel. I also noticed that you looked a little dubious as you handed a sharp metal cutting tool to the crazy white naked girl, and I agree that your doubt was well-founded. I might suggest that you do the honors of the lock cutting next time, should the other party be dripping and naked. It’s really just a safety issue, isn’t it? Those handles can be slippery when wet, and given that being nude inherently entails a lack of proper protective gear, I can only imagine that naked bolt-cutting is an activity on which your Loss Control and Legal departments would frown.
I’d like you to understand, incidentally, that I was not trying to stick any naked part of myself so close to your head, but since my locker was on the top I needed to stand on the dressing bench in order to get the appropriate leverage for naked bolt-cutting. I hope you forgive me, and that you're able to erase the memory from your mind.
In any case, I think we can both agree that my lat flies have paid off, as I’m certain I heard an audible sigh of appreciation from you as I snapped that lock like a priest snaps a Communion wafer. Hallelujah.
And may God bless you, Locker Room Savior.
Signed,
The Wet Naked Blushing Dripping Bolt-cutting Bilingual Catholic Schoolgirl
*Did I lock it? See below.
**Today I bravely revisited the gym and found my lock in my gym bag. Not the lock that was cut, mind you – but my actual lock. How, in span of stowing a soiled towel and bathing suit and taking a shower, a stranger’s identical lock ended up on my locker and mine ended up in my gym bag is up for debate.
And to the woman whose lock I’ve unwittingly vandalized and stolen, I either apologize or I put a pox on you and your misplaced lock.
Signed,
The Formerly Naked Lock-vandalizing Bolt-cutting Gym Member