It’s just me and I’ve been trapped in hundreds of pounds of clothes since October. That’s a long time to be squatted inside, virtually immobilized, and living like Jabba the Hutt.
This entire season, which barrels along as I type, has been wall-to wall gloom with bitter wind and brutal, punishing cold. Even the January thaw went missing; it simply didn’t show up. Snow did, though. Trillions and zillions of icy white shards plastered the landscape as far as the eye could see. From here to the curve of the horizon was a landscape of utter desolation. Earth is no longer earth, it’s Neptune, or maybe Uranus, an Ice Giant planet, anyway. Like them, I’m far, far, far from the sun.
Every moment outside is crushing torture. The dog isn’t a fan, either. Our walks have been reduced from long, leisurely miles to a few feet. We dash out, we dash back — and spend the rest of our time restoring body heat to far-flung extremities. Coffee and hot chocolate are my salvation. Hot showers, too. Big, fat, woolly socks. Sweaters, sweatshirts, sweat anything. Thermal whatevers. I pile on layer after layer until I’ve achieved an R-value similar to home insulation.
I’m puffier and more uncomfortable than the Stay Puft Marshmellow dude. As a result, I’m on the brink of becoming a nudist. That’s what winter has wrought, a budding streaker. I’m sick to death of clothes and sickly winter pallor, chapped skin and chronic gooseflesh, itchy wool and staticky hair. I want sunshine. I want warmth. I was my nose to stop running. And I want it all now, dammit. I don’t want to go naked, I really don’t, but the urge to break free of constraints is nearly irresistible.
By the way, did you know nudists call people in clothes ‘textiles’? They do. On nude beaches, first-timers are referred as ‘cotton tails’ thanks to their pasty white butts. Isn’t that a hoot? No. I don’t want to be a cottontail, I want to be a textile. Albeit a textile in one pair of shorts and one t-shirt, since I’ve no wish to wear the whole closet.
However, the longer winter continues, the more I want to tear my clothes off. So, please, look away; I’m in fear for my modesty here. Knowing me, I’ll go right off the deep end and make a public spectacle of myself. Weather permitting.