Mauve Momma #5

Go Naked - You'll Love It!

I haven't been naked around a large group of people for years; my talents run more to accidentally seeing other people naked. At my last debate tournament I walked into the bathroom in time to see my teammate's cute Italian ass in all its glory. He was embarassed enough that I didn't mention it wasn't the first time I'd done that to the men on our team.

I've changed behind towels; I've changed backstage and in crowded dressing rooms; and I've been poked professionally, wearing just a blue piece of paper, by several doctors trying to tell my mother I needed a back brace to stop my scoliosis. But all of those were just half naked, and in none of them did I enjoy myself much. There's one time I know I did. But for that, we need a dose of the Wayback Machine.

The details are fuzzy, but I can just make up what I don't remember. It is 1983. I am sporting a bowl haircut. And Mommy and Daddy are washing the car. I don't really know if both Mom and Dad were there -- it was pretty rare to get them in the same place, ever -- but for this story I'm saying they were. Anyway. Car washing! Soap! Buckets! Wheee! The next thing you know, Baby Mauve is stark naked, save for some strategically placed soap suds. I grab a sponge from a bucket almost as big as me and wash whatever's in my reach -- meaning, the tire rims. In the midst of this Mommy decides to take a picture. Baby Mauve! Look here, honey! SNAP!

And there, preserved for the annals of time, is me, naked, amidst the soap. But my family is way too smart-ass to let it go at that. Daddy, an aging hippie and lover of beads and crafts, gets his hands on the Baby Mauve picture. He turns it into a orange button, featuring my bare ass on the left, and the snappy advice "Go Naked - You'll Love It!" on the right. Great. Now I'm part of the naked movement, for chrissakes. I should have been grateful he didn't print 50 and sell them at the Azuza swapmeet. I wouldn't have put it past him.

The worst thing about this little story is that it's not over. My boyfriend, the long-suffering PF, is about to meet Baby Mauve in a week's time. My mother might lose everything else, but the orange button is stuck firmly into the corkboard above her bed. Twenty-one years later and I'm still butt naked and happy, grabbing a sponge, ready to pitch in. Excepting the bowl haircut, I guess it's not a bad way to be remembered.