In Defense of Public Nudity

“Why is no one wearing pants?!” I remember yelling often with my hands in the air in frustration while my naked children strutted through the living room like a pack of streakers.

Nudity used to run rampant in my house when my daughters were three and six and I used to spend way too much time asking people to put on clothes. My kids’ self-confidence overflowed, and I wondered if maybe they were born in the wrong decade and actually belonged in some 1960s hippie nudist colony.

Today, at seven and ten, my daughters are more modest. At first I was happy about this change, because we have a long history of embarrassing public nakedness. My children would never forgive me if I gave details, but let’s just say there is a now infamous incident at an eating establishment, and leave it at that.

But with my kids’ new awareness about public decency, also comes self-doubt and insecurity. Wardrobe changes now come with closed doors, and it has been a long time since anyone around here went topless simply because their shirt tag was itchy. This newfound modesty marks the beginning of the stage when I have to worry about their body image and confidence.

Almost universally, girls learn to hate their bodies and this scares me. I dread the teen years when I am sure to hear constant complaints from my daughters wanting to be a little smaller here, and a little bigger there. We are quick to blame celebrities and the media, but the path to hating our bodies runs much closer to home. I don’t know any moms who are satisfied with their bodies, and even though we all try to keep that under wraps, our children pick up on the self-shaming.

I truly wondered if there really were any 40-something women out there who bare it all and think: damn, I look good. Well, they do exist, and recently I found three of them in my gym locker room.

I was minding my own business, cowering in the corner trying to stealthily change from shower towel to clothes and these ladies paraded past me au naturel. They carried on a lively conversation like it was no big deal at all. They chatted and laughed. Things jiggled, and then they laughed some more.

I turned my head to avoid the spectacle and silently yelled, “for the love of God, women, cover yourselves!” These ladies had not been blessed with eternally high metabolism, nor had they been nipped and tucked to perfection, but they happily went about their naked business anyway. The scene was like my kids in the living room all over again, only less cute and more uncomfortable for everyone else.

I don’t know whether they actually thought they looked damn good, or if they just didn’t care. It doesn’t really matter. They were comfortable in their own skin despite their obvious post-pregnancy body damage. They could not care less that their misshapen, different-sized breasts hung low and battled it out with their tummy pooches.

They were just ordinary moms like me, but they wore their imperfections, proudly, while I was still hiding under my towel.

I want my daughters to be like those women. Yep, I want them to grow up to be the naked ladies in the locker room who undress and re-dress with wild abandon. Instead of ending up like me, and performing a contortionist’s trick trying to stay unexposed while getting dressed; the end of the towel wound up in my clenched teeth where I hold onto it for dear life as I attempt to put on my shirt.

My daughters used to be those naked ladies… but eventually, total immodesty turned into modesty, and then perhaps, like me, into embarrassment and shame.

I wanted to ask the locker room ladies how they avoided that path, but I just couldn’t carry on a conversation with that much nudity.

I didn’t appreciate the wildly confident days while we had them. I miss my kids’ free-spiritedness and their uber-positive body image. My wish is for them to always feel comfortable with their bodies, and to periodically parade their naked selves around proudly. Now, I almost hope the kids will publically disrobe again so that I might change my reaction. But preferably not in a restaurant.

Angie Frederickson is a freelance writer and mother of three. When those worlds collide, she has been known to hide from her children in order to meet writing deadlines. One favorite hiding/writing spot is her bedroom closet… they never look there. Frederickson lives in Houston where she writes feature stories for a local lifestyle magazine. Her work has also been featured on Mamalode.