Copping an Eyeful

I like to walk around the house naked. Not in a lewd, sexual way; Mr. Lonie pushing past my unclothed form to watch Warnie yob around the MCG is enough to wither any pretensions of irresistibility. Not in an exhibitionist way; I’ve had enough creepy loser and dirty-old-man attention to be thankful wolf-whistlers, touchy-feelers and up-skirters probably no longer pay me a second glance. No, I walk around the house naked (or scantily clad) in a, ‘it’s bloody hot / where’re my undies / can’t be arsed putting clothes on’ way.

I make no apologies to the Puritan Police who raise an outcry over Janet Jackson’s boob but don’t bat an eyelid about discussing their most intimate sexual problems with Dr. Phil and his audience of millions. Nakedness in the home is a luxury of the non-share-houser with children still several years away from almost dying with embarrassment over their mother appearing in front of school friends dressed only in bra, undies and pantyhose, dammit! And frankly, if you’re going to peer rudely into my house, any subsequent spontaneous retina detachment is your own silly fault.

But did I want my parents-in-law to see me dressed only in hobbit pants and a stylish pink maternity bra last Saturday? Ideally, no, and I had the best intentions of being arsed to put clothes on before they arrived to inflict their punishment (a.k.a. weekly visit), but, well, the road to in-laws dishabille is paved with good intentions. Blame the 2007 Bloggies, for I was perusing the nominees (wondering if writing about explicit and made-up-sounding sexual adventures would snag me a mention next year) and lost track of my last precious minutes of pre-inanities relaxation.

The stupid-sounding: “I’ll just get myself decent!” was the first thing that leaped from my desperate lips as my in-laws appeared and proceeded to let themselves in. They made some confused noises as they added my unthinkable state of undress to their list of Lonie’s Crimes Against Humanity, while I raced to find a top that was ironed, lest Mr. Lonie’s mother have a heart attack from indignation overload.

Some people might have been horrified to find themselves in my situation, but I could scarcely keep the laughter from gushing out. My father-in-law’s face as he hovered in the doorway, aghast and uncertain, was utterly priceless. To a passive-aggressive soceraphobe like me, it was the best laugh I had all day.