in which there is nudity

I was filling the sock drawer with handfuls of freshly laundered socks last night when I came across a semi-nude photograph of myself. I remember putting it there some time ago and I remember moving it from its former location to keep from offending a nice Mexican family. However, I can’t remember what the nice Mexican family was doing in my house or what would have made the photograph more offensive to them than any random family viewing a tasteful and artistic depiction of me in my birthday suit with a strategically held cowboy hat.

It was taken years back, and I remember that I had forgotten all about it until the girl at the Target photo lab started laughing when I showed up to collect the prints. I didn’t remember right away, actually. I politely laughed with her and pretended to be in on it, and then it hit me as I exited through the red automatic doors that she was amused by my less than Greek statuesque physique.

That’s when the laughing stopped and the hurting began.

I actually used to use my semi-nudity as a weapon. There were always solicitors roaming through the apartment complex in college, and I would answer the door in nothing but my boxers to knock them off kilter, as it were. They would stutter and stammer while I demanded to know why they interrupted my Bible study group.

The Girl Scouts were always unfazed.

And I’m sure the nice Mexican family probably would have been as well. At least, they probably wouldn’t have been any more offended at that than they would have been at something I might have said or sung when the margaritas began flowing.

I don’t remember the family or why they came but I do seem to recall that there were margaritas, and the actual me on margaritas is undoubtedly less charming than the naked me I keep in the sock drawer.