July 14, 2000

The problem is, of course, getting past the naked guy.

I'm walking to lunch, minding my own business with a vengence, when I see him: skinny, tanned and stark naked.  He's strolling along the sidewalk ahead of me, foot-loose, fancy-free and not wearing a damned thing.

No, wait.  He's got ratty flip-flops on, and a thong, it looks like -- I can make out the twine-thin red cord running around his waist and down into the crack of his... ass.

I, um, didn't actually intend to look at his ass.

He's walking slowly, ambling down the middle of the sidewalk, his arms swinging in wide arcs.  I'm approaching him much faster than I'd prefer and I can't for the life of me figure out how to get by.

I mean, what's the ettiquette here?  "Excuse me?"  Just sprint past?  Given the whole host of body image problems that I tote around with me, I've got some pretty serious suspicions about the mental health of anybody who can walk around stark naked, or awfully near it.  He's obviously not armed -- ba dump bump! -- what if he touches me?  Ewwww.

So I cut into the parking lot of the auto dealer we're passing, intending to discretely speed by hidden by the cars.  Then I'll pop back onto the sidewalk ahead of him, like I was just finishing up some business.  Problem solved!

Though struggling through the bush and jumping the retaining wall probably didn't make it look as casual as I had hoped.

 



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