COLUMN: Locker Room

There were a lot of things on my dance card for this week. Exposing myself to an elderly lady was NOT one of them.

I've never been one for public nudity. In a civilized society, I wouldn't expect this to be an especially controversial stance. Maybe stripping down to your skivvies is your idea of a fun time. If so, have at it. To each their own, I say. There's even a nudist campground a few miles outside the Quad Cities. If you fancy heading out there to risk bees stinging you in places bees should never visit, don't let me stop you.

(True story: It's been years since I've been out that way, so I don't know if it's still there, but there used to be a farm next to that nudist campground where they raised somewhat exotic animals like buffalo and llamas. I was aimlessly joyriding one weekend when I happened upon that farm. I had recently purchased a fancy camera and thought the buffalo might make good test subjects, so I pulled off to take a pic. Only then did it dawn on me that snapping pics with a telephoto lens while standing feet from an entrance to a nudist campground is probably NOT the best plan of action should I wish NOT to have a reputation as a creeper pervert, so I quickly eased on down the road with no candid buffalo snapshots as a memento of my journey.)

I'm not anti-nudist, but it is NOT my lifestyle du jour. If my clothes could wear clothes, I'd enthusiastically encourage it to happen. I've spent a lot of time in this body, and it's not exactly a treat to behold. I know its nooks and crannies quite well, and it's never going to win any awards. A renaissance artist is never going to stop me on the street and say, "I MUST PAINT YOU!" 

But I'm pretty sure that even if I were svelte, symmetrical, and statuesque, I still wouldn't be into showing off my goods. The master list of people who have seen me naked is fairly small, and I'd like to keep membership to that club as exclusive as possible. If I could wear clothes into the shower, I probably would.

When I graduated high school, I took comfort in the fact it might be the last time I ever stepped foot into a locker room. But that was before this exciting past year of doctors and lectures and medically-motivated gym memberships. I've been going to the gym regularly for months now, but I've also been fairly steadfast about avoiding the locker room. I simply roll up to the gym already dressed in workout gear, get sweaty and gross, and then drive promptly home to shower in privacy.

But a funny thing happens in the wintertime I'd never factored: it gets mighty cold outside. Trekking to your car in a t-shirt and workout pants when there's a -20 wind chill isn't especially ideal. So, with teeth clenched, I took the plunge and rented a locker at the gym. Yes, nothing brings us together as a society quite like communal nudity and the compelling stench of B.O. mixed with Axe Body Spray. Oh, how I missed you, locker rooms.

When I'm changing at the gym, I try my best to keep my head down and blend into the woodwork. I have but two rules of etiquette in the locker room: (1) Get in and out as quickly as possible, and (2) ignore everything and everyone around you. Sometimes it's easy. Sometimes it's not. 

A couple weeks ago, I was in the locker room with a couple other guys who, based on their racquets and, umm, balls, had just finished playing racquetball. It quickly became apparent that the two were co-workers, and Guy #1 was giving Guy #2 advice on an upcoming work presentation. This was fine and dandy, except Guy #1 was doling out his sagely wisdom while standing there stark naked. At one point, he abandoned all pretense of getting dressed and just stood uncomfortably close to his colleague in nothing more than a birthday suit while discussing marketing strategies. I'm not sure if I was witnessing pure confidence or pure obliviousness on his part. Either way, I'm not buying whatever you're selling, dude.

But that was nothing compared to this week's locker room adventure. As per usual, I was giving my best effort at ignoring the world around me. I even had an audiobook playing in my earpods. Stephen King was avidly describing a grisly murder to me in gruesome detail, but I wasn't paying attention. I was too distracted by the weird noise coming from my left. It was the sound of water running, but nothing was over there except some other dude changing.

Curiosity finally got the better of me, so I finally stole a glance to see what the noise was. I was not expecting the noise to be an elderly lady. My locker room buddy was changing, sure enough, but he also had his phone propped up in his locker, and on that phone was video of an elderly woman doing dishes at her kitchen sink. But this wasn't watching a movie. He was Facetiming and chatting with this woman in real time.

"Well, that's just silly," I thought to myself. It took five more seconds for logic to hit me. If I could see this random elderly woman, this random elderly woman could DEFINITELY see me -- and more of me than she should ever be seeing. Yep, all my assorted bits and bobs were right there in glorious 5G technicolor. I pulled up my pants and dove out of frame so frantically I nearly faceplanted over one of the benches. I sure hope Random Guy's Mom enjoyed the show. For all I know, I could be the star attraction on FatGuysInLockerRooms.com as I type.

I should've screamed at the guy. I should've tattled to the front desk. But my urge to remain anonymous and blend into the woodwork won out, so I sheepishly left while cursing him out in my mind. My new locker room plea is to please ignore me and carry on doing whatever you do, UNLESS what you do is amateur cinematography. Warm weather can't get here fast enough so I can go back to avoiding that room like the plague. In the meantime, quick, everyone put some clothes on -- I need to call my mom and tell her what time I'll be home for Easter.