| Image via Mitologie |
Bare facts
"Depending on taste, you'll see some variation in coverage around these areas," — I point on my chalkboard diagram to the thighs, shoulders and neckline — “but by and large we keep the following areas wrapped with two, or even three, layers of clothing," I say, indicating the more delicate portions of the human anatomy. "Any questions?" My beloinclothed pupil shakes his head, then sort of squirms in his chair, as he's now very eager to dress into the khaki shorts and hawaiian shirt his host family has provided him. The two of us then break for lunch at my favorite beach-side oyster bar, where one has an exquisite view of the shoreline from the back patio. Suddenly, mid-oyster, Xanu’s eyes go as wide as cue balls; he points at a shapely woman wearing a bikini that reveals approximately 25 percent more skin than the average pair of underwear, not to mention 75 percent more than even the skimpiest cocktail dress we discussed in our modesty lesson. Such attire is clearly confusing to Xanu. “She’s swimming,” I tell him. “Swimming is different.” After lunch, I take Xanu to the local gym, where he dazzles onlookers on the rowing machine, but doesn’t quite know what to make of that StairMaster business. “You’ll get the hang of it,” I later tell him in the locker room. Then, without warning, I whip off my gym shorts and head to the showers. Xanu is quite alarmed. “Oh, don’t worry — we’re in a locker room; it’s OK.” Xanu then follows me into the shower room, where, darn it all, I realize I’ve forgotten my towel. Xanu attempts to peel back the shower curtain to deliver it to me. “No, no! Just hand it to me!” I shout, blindly reaching around the curtain. On the way home from the gym we make a stop at the dry cleaner’s, where Xanu notes that I get a bit red-faced and flustered when the female attendant hands me my wife’s lacy nightgown. Next, a quick stop at Mervyns, where Xanu, wishing to try on a new pair of slacks, removes his khaki shorts right there by the rack. “Xanu!” I say, darting reassuring glances to the startled passersby. “Save it for the dressing room.” We end our day with a trip to see the Orlando Magic play, where men in tank tops take orders from men in suits, who are standing by young women in short skirts and bikini tops, who are shouting to a group of shirtless men with letters painted on their chests. That night, while I sleep, Xanu packs his small rucksack, changes back into his loincloth and slips out the back door. Potato, pot-ah-to, that he could abide; but modesty was something he feared he would never understand. |
