I've been looking through old photograph albums for the last hour or so, going through pictures of myself when I was little and remembering a lot of things. One thing, however, I do not remember, is being a streaker. I remember that my younger sister was very keen on stripping off everything and running around with her little bare bottom hanging out for all to see, but that I was quite fond of keeping my clothes on. However, that theory has now been shattered. I've just come across a picture of myself, oh, around eight years old, just fresh out of a bath with soggy hair plastered to the sides of my face, a big smile on my lips, and the towel gleefully flung out at my sides. I look like a a streaker in training, honestly: a future streaker of America, I was.
At once, I felt tremendously embarassed for the eight year old version of myself. My immediate thought was "cover up, cover up! The shame..." and I wanted to wrap that towel about my younger body and carry me off somewhere private for a very important talk. "Now, now... you know you're not supposed to do that in public, don't you dear?" But then I remembered the years of young adolescence, time spent locking bathroom doors, bedroom doors, and using the absolute biggest towel possible, all for the sake of not being caught anywhere near as naked as I willingly displayed my eight year old self. It's strange how age smothers us in awareness, fear, even shame. Children aren't ashamed of who they are. It's living that throws the towel around us all.