February 11, 2009
I could really get used to this 48-degrees-in-the-middle-of-February stuff. Really, I could. All day long I've been sitting at my desk, organizing my email inbox, fighting the hard urge to do a lap around the block wearing nothing but some sort of a hand knit scarf.
A little taste of spring'll do that to ya.
I really have no idea where my fantasies toward public nudity originated, but hoo boy let me tell you, they're there.
When I think about it from the practical point of view I usually tell myself, "Amy, of course you want to run around naked. Nudity involves absolutely no ironing and you get the feel the wind through the crack of your ass."
But the whimsical side of me? The whimsical side says, "Amy, let's face it, it's all about the wind and the ass crack thing."
And then there's the honest side of my personality which manifests itself every now and again--and each time it does, I think, "I'd like to know what really happens to a set of honkers after the age of seventy. I've heard they start to look like a rubbery pair of drumsticks...can it be true? If we all walked around naked, I could certainly put this mystery to rest."
Rubber drumsticks. That's gross. But very intriguing.
Are there any elderly readers out there? If so, I hope you'll be willing to confirm or deny?