I didn't think I could do it. I thought I would chicken out. I thought I'd have to make my dog write this column again for lack of a better subject.
But there I was, sitting in a hot tub with 10 other people, interviewing them ... naked.
Sounds like a nightmare I had once, but alas, this was my Saturday.
I have to admit, when I "volunteered" (i.e., no one else would do it) to cover a nudist resort for this week's issue, I feigned my enthusiasm.
"I'll do all the interviews naked!" I proclaimed as people laughed, blushed, shuddered and grinned. They admired my prowess and my willingness to experiment. I laughed along with them, proudly strutting around (still clothed at this point) ... but inside, I was huddled in the fetal position, sucking my thumb, wondering "why, why, why did I open my big mouth?!"
But it was too late. I was doomed to be naked. I couldn't possibly write about something without experiencing it. OK, it was more like, I couldn't disappoint an entire staff of people who eagerly awaited my titillating (pun intended) tale of nakedness.
I had a week to practice.
I shut the blinds in the apartment, made sure my roommate wasn't lurking, and stripped down. I tip toed out of my bedroom (sneaking past the washer and dryer as if they were whispering behind my bare back), sprinted back in the when the phone rang and finally strutted back out when I realized phones can't see.
I then engaged in a variety of activities that I normally do fully dressed (which I realize now is a damn shame). There was naked TV watching, naked cookie baking (I recommend oven mitts for every burnable place on your body), naked dusting and my personal favorite, naked paying the bills (makes it less painful somehow).
After an hour of being exposed to every appliance and wall hanging in my apartment, I was ready to face the real world. I approached the front door, peered through the peephole and slowly creaked the door open ... until two wily kids rushed past my apartment on scooters.
I quickly shut the door and decided that being a closet home nudist was good enough for now.
Saturday came and I was still a nervous wreck. Sure, being naked in front of my TV was OK, and I was fine as long as I stayed away from mirrors and bad lighting, but this was out in the open, in public, with nothing to hide my every flaw and freckle!
My only saving grace was that the sun was nowhere to be found and the temperature was dropping faster than my pants ever could. I could use the cold weather as an excuse.
As my photographer and I drove past the sign for Shangri-La Ranch and into the camp, there was an eerie stillness, magnified by the cluster of lifeless camper vans and desolate desert landscape. Not exactly Shangri-La. And worst of all, there were no naked people.
Of course, the weather must have dampened their enthusiasm to be "free" as well, but still, I was here on a mission and I wanted to see the nudies.
After talking with a group of bundled up resort residents, all very friendly and, probably to everyone's surprise, normal (no one had a tail or third arm), I was challenged by whom I like to call Feisty Frank.
"So when are you getting naked?" he asked with a hint of apprehension, as if I was just another hypocrite journalist come to unveil the "seedy (naked) underbelly" of nudism, which doesn't exist, by the way.
Reverting back to the "double-dog-dare" days of childhood, I accepted his question/challenge with an arched eyebrow and was led promptly to the hot tub, where everyone has to be naked. (We chose the hot tub not because of what it represented, but because it was quite nipply outside!)
So there I was, sitting in a hot tub with 10 other people, interviewing them ... naked.
It was sort of like a bad geriatric version of Blind Date, but without any of the sexual tension.
The bubbles still offered some sense of security, which allowed me to finally release any fear/doubt/discomfort in being completely in the buff. And oddly enough, being naked actually forces you to make eye contact with those around you, making it easier to listening to the words they're saying.
Finally, and ironically, a place where men actually look you in the eyes and not at your chest!
I stepped out of the hot tub, fidgeting with where to put my hands at first, and then tossing them to the side, realizing that it just didn't matter anymore. I walked around for the next 10 minutes in my unclad state, chatting with completely normal people about completely normal things.
These people weren't sex fiends. They were teachers and doctors and businessmen. They weren't freaks of society. They were mothers and fathers, siblings and friends.
Knowing these things, they were no longer naked. They simply didn't have clothes on.
I'm not sure if I would go back any time soon (at least not until it warms up), but I can say with every ounce of certainty now that I can.
No pretenses. No apprehension. No clothes.
Ashlea Deahl wrote this column naked. Reach her at ashlea.deahl@asu.edu.
