A(n Im)modest Proposal

No thanks to Jonathan Swift, that meanie.

You all know it's Lent, right? That special time in the Christian calendar when you spend 40 days and nights praying and fasting.

They even made a movie about it.

Um.

So, what am I giving up for Lent?

Well, what not to give up is the more à propos question for me (and, yes, that is French, and, yes, I am using it correctly, 'cause I looked it up in the dictionary and everything).

I mean: hm, drinking? masturbation? self-flagellation? drinking? cussing? drinking? mastur-mastur-masturbation?

Then I came up with the purrrfect one. It's so good, everybody should take this one on:

I'm going to give up wearing clothes to work.

I mean, okay, all buildings are climate controlled, so all I have to do is book it to the bus, then metro, then bus to get to the nice, toasty-warm office building.

Okay, so the streaking laws are kinda strict in the Commonwealth of Virginia (and I suppose where you live, too), so I guess I can wear some clothes going to and from work (a trench coat, anyone? With a raspberry beret?), but after that, baybee, when I get to my office, they have a coat closet in the main area, see? and there's where Imma gonna take off my coat, and ... 'show and tell'?

'Know all, see all,' is how it is with me, baybee. Let's not keep secrets, shall we? If you had had any questions, all you now have to do is look, baybee!

Same with you.

Like, this resolves ALL sorts of issues people deal with every day.

And what kind of issues? STUPID issues! Like:

"Is she a ... natural blond?"

Well all you have to do now is look south and check.

"I wonder if she ... shaves ... her ... you know?"

Well, now you know.

And it ... 'it' meaning 'stupid questions' ... are not just limited to guys. Take our gender, the chick gender, for example.

I mean: what's our first nervous breakdown of the day?

You know what I'm talking about, girls.

Guys open the fridge, and hang by the door for a half-hour, wondering what to eat.

MEN!

But girls are worse, not by the fridge: by the closet.

You open up the closet, and blouses are stuffed in there so tightly they are cause the door to burst open, but what do you lament every morning:

WAIL! "I haven't a THING to wear!"

And now that's really the case if you take on my lenten abstinence.

"Check out that nekkid chick," is all you'll be hearing all day, every day.

Wonder if boyz be checking you out? Wonder no more.

But it goes so much deeper than that, right, girls?

They say: 'The clothes make the man'?

I say: Bullshit!

No: women are defined by what they are wearing, particular by what designer label the clothes are wearing that they are wearing.

*sigh* All this writing of the word 'wearing' is wearing me out.

"Oh, look, she carries it well when she wears outfits from Judy's"

"So, you buy off the rack ... from the salvation army? Or do you dumpster dive, you tramp?"

Of course, we girls don't say that ... out loud. But that look. That disparaging look.

And then we look in the mirror, after we look at a girl wearing a simple white blouse and a string of pearls, that she bought from Nieman Marcus ...

... and we say that, and much worse, to ourselves.

Empowering, being nekkid, there's now one less thing that we can degrade ourselves ... and others ... about.

"But, `phfina, I don't have that supermodel vogue bod!"

Heh! You're saying that to ME? I mean, I went to Tysons mall last weekend, and every single boob check I did (and I did more than 50, thank you for asking), I ended up failing.

No, strike that: one pre-pre-teen had smaller titties than me.

Big win. @_@

C'mon, girls! We're our own harshest critics and worst enemies!

Another empowering point. Everybody now can see you, see me, that is, exactly as we are, and exactly as we aren't. And, you'll be confronted at every second, to have to love yourself as you are, I mean: getting really honest with yourself.

So there's that: the self-love thing.

But then, you know, we girls are always wondering ...

... cause that's what we girls do ... all the time: wonder.

And the things we wonder, I swear!

"... does he like me?"

So hard to tell ... that is: with clothes on.

Now, it'll be hard, but not to tell, if he likes you.

And if you're still not sure, just rub up against him

You'll know, either way.

And, I think, I'm not talking from first hand experi...

... wait, actually, I am.

Whether a guy likes you or not, the little guy down there likes you.

My kitty likes getting pats.

He doesn't have a kitty: he has a snake. It LIKES getting rubs.

It really does, girls.

I know.

And so, you'll know if he likes you or not, just by, a little girlish simper and a quick package check. Failing that a body to full body rub will get you the answer you need.

OR! it will tell you if he has erectile dysfunction, which amounts to the same answer. Cause ... well, okay, holding a guy's hand at an art museum is one thing, but it's not the same thing, you know, for ... you know, what happens between the sheets, and if he's not putting babies in you, good, long, and hard, then ... well, he can be a guy friend, I suppose, or you can have ... scintillating intellectual conversations with him.

Um, ... yeah.

And, well, that gets right back to the guys. You know how they're always talking manly shit about their things, right? Well, now, that cuts out that bullshit at the watercooler. Permanently.

gf is NOT impressed with your non-tree-trunk little weenie speaking louder than your he-man chest-thumping.

I tell you what.

So, paradoxically, being nekkid at work will cut out a lot of the bullshit at work, so people can actually, SHOCKER! do work at work.

And then, well, there's always the janitor's closets, for when, guy, sees girl, likes girl, so (instinctually) indicates.

They hop into the closet, and then, get back to work, him leaking a bit, and so is she.

THINK of the population problems!

I mean, in Europe, there are now towns that are deserted. And 'How the west was won?' In the midwestern Unites States, they are closing down schools, and then, soon after, they close down the towns.

Problem solved in a few years.

AND, ... well, wearing all those clothes all the time, guys get repressed ... and go ape-shit nuts, and grab the secretary, bend her over the desk and fuck her up the ass.

Hard.

To avoid the paternity issues, don't you know.

Not that I would know that ... personally.

Well, now, there's no avoiding it ... you know, her ... you know, staring right at you, and she gets in a crowded elevator, and what do you know! his snake just so happens to slither right up into her happy place.

See all the problems my simple solution solves? It gets rid of all these stupid ambiguities, solves depopulation issues and keeps workers calm and content and productive at work.

Now, some of you girls (5%, right?) are saying to me: 'But `phfina, guys aren't my thing! A guy snakes me, I swear to God!'

Easily solved. Just carry scissors. He'll get the idea when he approaches and you open them in front of your hips. Snap them a few times for emphasis. Guys aren't subtle, but he'll get the hint. He will.

"But `phfina, that solves nothing for me. I mean, your straight girl can tell if a guy likes her, but with girls, it's harder."

No it isn't. Same method applies, too: rub up against her. You'll know if she likes you after your full-lip-lock-French-kiss. You'll know, 'cause you'll either get the pullback and the two tight slaps across the face, or you'll find yourself in a full-frontal nelson hold on the floor with her.

Or first the slaps, then the nelson. That's when, when you eventually take a break for air, to growl a 'feisty bitch' in her ear that you nibble and give her a love-smack on the heinie. Feisty girls like a little discipline, I've found.

Now, yes, girls are complex beasts, and have their own monsters to deal with, so she may struggle and slap and pinch you because she's struggling with her own acceptance of her up-until-now undiscovered sexual orientation.

So: help her. A few more kisses, and she'll be at peace with herself, and more than willing to learn about herself from somebody more experienced in these ways ... that is: you.

See?

Somebody give me the Nobel peace prize right now ...

Why? ... 'cause okay, these stupid ethnic issues.

Okay, so this Arab guy is killing Jews, and vice versa. Oh, well: I don't even have to look outside my own back yard with the Orange and Green Irish killing each other.

Well, weapons, when fired, get really hot.

You touch somebody's butt (now nekkid) with your rifle muzzle you've just fired, ... they'll let you know. That's one solution.

The other solution is, okay: hot babe on the other side of the DMZ. You gonna shoot at her, or, you gonna jump ranks and shoot in her.

Uh-huh. Thought so.

And then, her kids? They're yours, too. And you're not gonna be shelling building on the other side, 'cause your kids are in that building.

"Visualize world peace"?

It's easy if you try ... to see them all ... nekkid.

;)

"So," you say, after reading all that above, in your self-righteous affrontry, "`phfina, put up or shut up, biatch! I hear a lot of talk from you, but I bet you're not doing what you're sayin'! Strip it or gag it!"

I respond: "Quit writing my story ideas!"

(Or actually: please do write my stories! You write them better, anyway)

And then I actually retort: "Oh, yeah? Who said I haven't? You? You work where I do? Well, you can shove it, yourself, 'cause guess what I did!"

Uh-huh. I did.

This is what I did: ...

... no, I didn't get nekkid at the office, not at my desk, ... nor at my office ... technically ...

... because, technically, the bathroom ... well, it's shared for the whole floor, see? So it's not technically part of our office, see, and ...

"`phfina!" You cry, shocked now, "You didn't get really strip down to your all-together in your office bathroom."

Yep, I did.

Wanna peek?

YOU PERV! I KNEW you would wanna. You pervy perv!

So, ya know ... (God! I'm blushing so hard, thinking about what I did!) ...

So, I can't just write something demanding and pushy, like I always do, unless I'm more than just 'willing' to do it, too, but that I actually do DO it.

So, I went to the little girls room, outside our office, that sterile, cold, taupe-colored industrial place that they probably have the exact same designs for our prison systems (and no, I never want to verify that supposition, thank you) (although they do say the smex is plentiful there, but I don't wanna be the bitch to some mamma named 'Bertha,' with three murder convictions under her (copious) belt and a desire to act out her snuff fantasies on me, thank you)

(I say 'thank you' a lot, ... I'm polite like that. Particularly when I'm so hard embarrassed and want to talk about anything other than the topic at hand ... or in hand, that topic being me. *sigh* Back on topic)

... and picked the 4th stall in, and ...

stripped.

I took off my blouse, kicked off my black flats (that I keep stashed at the office, 'cause like hell am I gonna wear those during my commute and get the 'Oh, look at that poor girl who just fell flat on her face onto the rain-slicked concrete sprinting to catch her bus, the poor thing! Hey, girl, I hope those papers whipping away aren't all that important, are they? Are they your school homework?' and I'd die as I answer, 'No, only the original invoices and payroll I worked all night on, no biggie ...'), peeled off my (nude) stockings (slightly sweaty and girl stinky) (ewww). (and 'Nude' is a color, okay? JEEZ!)

The floor was cold and hard on my bare feet.

Then came the skirt. (Yes, I own skirts now, as I have to represent, so shut up). (no, it's not a micro nor a mini. Ankle-length and business drab grey: there is NO WAY I'm showing off my knobby knees, thanks)

Then all that was left were the bra and panties. Unhooked the bra, and peeled that off, and it felt wonderful, you know how it feels when elastic digs into you so long you don't notice it anymore, that is, until you relieve the pressure. That's what it felt like: a relief. But it was also weird and scary. If I were found out now, I'd be not only fired, but also arrested.

I didn't feel brave. I felt scared out of my mind, and my ears went into overdrive trying to listen for the sound of heels on the floor outside the bathroom.

Just one more article of clothing. I hooked my thumbs under the band of my panties, and, phffft, they were off, around my feet, and I kicked them onto my shoes.

Yup, I checked: I'm a natural brunette. No doubt about it.

Well, what are you supposed to do in the bathroom, girls?

I was a complete mess, on the inside, ready to puke from fright, but, you know, I did my business.

Nekkid.

And, while that was going on, as is recommended by the AMA or whoever prints those helpful informative waterproof placards you hang on your showerhead, I did a (very quick) breast exam.

No cancer. Well, no new lumps, anyway. I made sure.

I did have something that I'm absolutely positive that most girls in the world don't have there.

I'm not gifted with a c-cup, but I do have more nerve endings, and super-concentrated, right at the tip, too, but all around that general area. I know that for a fact. They were all super-stimulated, and I could feel the impulses emanating from every single one of them.

*whew* Um, did they turn up the temperature (from like 3 degrees above absolute zero in our bathrooms for some God-forsaken reason)? Or are my cheeks burning off from the sunburn I don't have?

I would love to report that, having done my business, and making sure I'm squeaky clean, that, in my newly liberated state, I went all the way, being in a heightened state of excitement.

I hope I don't have to explain the euphemistic implication of 'went all the way' to you. And if I do, then I'm going to slap an 18+ parental guard on my site, I swear!

But, no: I didn't.

What I did do is that I think I broke the world record in getting redressed, and, maybe, I put a dent in the next stall door, banging open my own stall door to get the hell out of the stall where absolutely nothing went on out of the usual and why do you ask, officer?

So, um, so much for the liberating experience of stripping down and showing all your all of what you're made of.

Woman power!

Yeah, right.

I wonder ...

'Cause that's what we girls do: we wonder, all the time, about ... 'stuff.'

I wonder if ... if everybody else was nekkid, would I be embarrassed for not being nekkid?

I wonder.

No, I don't.

'Cause, putting myself in that situation, you know that dream where you're back in college, and you come into class, wearing only panties, and if your dream is generous to you (which it never is. Dreams are such jerks!), a (totally sheer) camisole and you find it's the final exam that you totally didn't study for, and the very first question is this essay question where you have to rederive Euclid's 5th axioms using conic sections, or if essays are your bag, it's a multiple choice question where option A is three paragraphs long, but B and C are 5 paragraphs and D is 'none of the above' and E is 'All of the above' and you get sick to your stomach wonder if you pick E, because A, B, and C all sound reasonably right, does that mean you're also picking D, which is 'none of the above' and you don't want to point that out to the prof, because he's going to pissed at for you, again, asking those rebellious questions in class, and if you go up to his desk you know he's totally going to stare RIGHT THERE right through your see-through pink panties that are enscribed, embarrassingly, with the word 'HOT!' RIGHT THERE!

And if he's not staring there, it's because he's already got you bent over his desk, with the ruler raised for the 11+ spank on the pain scale.

And that's when you wake up?

Why did I just write all that?

Oh, yeah: So, in Ma Femme est une Actrice, Gallic guy walks onto the movie set and everybody else is nekkid and he's the only one who's clothed. I mean EVERYBODY! The boom boy, the cue girl, and of course, the principles, in bed, ...

One of whom is his wife.

And the security guard confronts him: "Eh, mate, waddaya want?!"

Nekkid.

That's when our dude faints.

That is EXACTLY what I'd do.

I'd walk into the office and Jackie (my new hot azn chick boss) (cause Janet moved to Texas to be with her GRANDKIDS!!!!) would greet me from her desk, nekkid, and I'd ...

And about then is when I'd wonder why did everything go dark and why is everybody standing around me, asking me if I'm okay? ... nekkid?

That's when I'd really freak, and run, probably not screaming, cause I wouldn't want to draw attention to myself, see? and run outside, seeing everybody else nekkid.

And faint again, hitting my head on the hard, smooth, cool marble floor.

Hmmm, feels like Rosalie.

But that's another story.

Um ... happy Lent everybody! 'Cause remember what this all is for, or: "I'm strippin' for Jesus!"

Um ... WHAT'S BEHIND YOU?

(`phfina streaks off)