Sunday is my long run day. My tranquil, relaxed pace, stretch-your-legs-and-know-you’re-alive run. It brings a certain peace to my chaotic week of children, household, work...blah blah blah... and I feel kinship with my community and surroundings. It’s a spiritual thing.
So when I ran past my neighbour this week watering his garden, I should have given him the expected smile and ‘hi’, an understanding flitting between us that we were both nature lovers and that all was good with the world.
But I didn’t. And it wasn’t.
Perhaps it was the fact that he was stark naked, his bronzed, aged buttocks presented to the roadside as he hosed his agapanthus, that threw me. Maybe it was the inability to suppress my laughter and speak at the same time, not to mention avoiding tripping up the kerbside whilst I surveyed the proud sight.
He didn’t appear to notice me, and I wasn’t risking a second look to check (in case I was scarred for life and had to seek immediate counselling). I ran the last kilometre home; my thoughts no longer on the warmth in my muscles or the regular beat of shoes on the bitumen. It reeled with the possibilities. Was he suffering from dementia? Was there a nudist colony in my suburb that I was unaware of? Did he just not give a stuff what I or the rest of the neighbourhood thought?
Two days on, I’m still thinking of him and his freedom in throwing caution (and his clothes) to the wind. My attention when I’ve driven past his house has been less on the road and more on the shrubbery to see if I can catch another glimpse to convince myself that I did actually see what I saw.
Who is this guy who wears no clothes and challenges the conventions set down by generations past? Should he be applauded for his sense of frankness, or locked up for indecent exposure? I’m not quite sure, but it did make me wonder what the rest of us are hiding.
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