Would I have to start planning outfits around the tattoo like I plan for weather?
I’m a worrier. I worry the elevator in my building will collapse, sending me plummeting (four whole stories) to my death. I worry there will be a fire when I’m not home and Lamby will be burnt into lamb chops. I worry when I drive with my windows down that a pigeon will fly into my car and peck my eyes out. I worry that I will be driving my car and hit someone I love. I worry that I worry too much.
But mostly I worry that I will be either showering or sleeping and there will be an earthquake and my entire building will collapse and my brother, who lives in the same apartment building but on the ground floor, will find my body in the rubble, dead, contorted, and, worst of all: naked.
Of course, we all know that worrying is silly…that it’s just suffering in advance over something that will likely never happen. So I take definitive actions against the scenarios that cause me worry. For example: I have an action plan for getting Lamby out of the building (my brother is under strict orders to rescue him), I drive with my windows up, and I make a very concerted effort not to hit any pedestrians or cyclists with my car.
But most important: I NEVER sleep in the nude. I’d like to say I take the stairs because of the whole elevator thing, but we all know I’m way too lazy for that. Plus, I have a whole other scenario where I trip down the stairs and break my neck and I feel like I’d rather be able to blame my death on the elevator than my klutziness.
(Side note: “In the nude” is possibly the most disgusting phrase there is. Worse, even, than “making love.” No no. Never mind. Just typed that out and “making love” is worse. Ugh. Gross.)
But seriously people, I live in San Francisco and my favorite place to hangout is my bed, which means that the chances are if and when “The Big One” hits, that’s where I’ll spend my last living moments. No need for the people (again, in my twisted brain, my brother) to have to pull me out from under smashed doors, broken ceramic bath tubs and piles of furniture only to be traumatically confronted with the cellulite on my thighs, that (ADORABLE, I TELL YOU) mole on my butt, or, heaven forbid, my vagina.
I mean, if I’ve never even looked at my vagina (seriously), maybe the last person on the planet to see it shouldn’t be a family member or rescue worker. (Although, if we’re being totally honest, I’m not even sure my vagina is there anymore. I assume that vaginas are like magic markers and eventually, if you stop using them for a while, they just dry up completely. That’s how science works, right?)
So yeah. I sleep in pajamas. Like ALL of the time.
Again, I am sure there is a time when I was having sex that perhaps I fell asleep naked (but only after peeing; protect yourself from those UTIs ladies!), but I can’t be expected to remember what my life was like in the olden days. Live in the present, that’s what I always say. Right before I polish off a bottle of wine and watch “Pretty Little Liars” while eating Goldfish Crackers and trying to remember when the last time I showered was.
In fact, I am so obsessed with not being found dead and naked that I own more pajamas than almost anyone I’ve ever met. I have footie pajamas (multiple pairs), winter pajamas, summer pajamas, boxers, T-shirts, and more chemises than a girl who never gets laid knows what to do with.
Seriously, I have like 12 silky nighties and yet I found myself adding more to my Gilt shopping cart the other day, only to realize that not only do I not need more sleepwear that no one else will ever see, but also that donning that particular colorful chemise will never make me look like the model in the photo. REALITY. The worst.
Pretty sure I don't need *this* chemise when...
Also, I’ll be honest: I feel like in the event of an earthquake when my building completely collapses, a chemise could easily ride up above my boobs, which is basically the same thing as being naked and possibly, somehow, worse.
Before you freak out, let me be clear: I am not a “never-nude.” I don't wear jorts in the shower. In fact, there was a time when I’d say I didn’t wear jorts at all, but I’ve happily adopted them into my wardrobe for the last two summers with, what I think has been, successful results because clearly I don’t equate getting laid with success for some reason. OK. Losing the jorts stat.
The truth? I shower completely and totally nekkid. Like nothing between the hot water and my intestines but a layer of skin. And probably some other stuff that I’d know about if my high school education hadn’t taken place at a reform school.
I realize that because I shower in the buff (another gross expression!) that the odds are The Big One will hit right when I’m lathering up, but I’ve solved for that out the best way I know how -- which is to shower as infrequently as humanly possible.
The thing that’s shocking about my sleeping/bathing habits in my opinion is not that I’m determined to die clothed and with dignity, but that so many of you are willing to have your corpse found stiff and blue with your pubic hair sprawled all over the place for the world to see. (For the record: I lasered all of mine off because, again, sex used to be a thing that I had.)
I mean, I don’t know what’s happening in America because I’m too lazy to Google it and see if there’s been a study done, but The Daily Mail tells me that in London, 73 percent of females are sleeping in just their underwear or the nude.
Seventy-three percent! Now, yes, it is true that they don’t have earthquakes in London like we do in San Francisco, but they still have fires. And heart attacks. And old age. AND BODIES. And I bet you some of them even live in a close proximity to their brothers. I KNOW. These ladies are really living on the edge. They might as well be communists or feminists, am I right?
I guess the only remaining question is how many of YOU are sleeping buck naked at night, staring danger in the face, assuming you’re safe from earthquakes, fires, tornadoes, and the worst thing in the world: being found dead wearing nothing but an expression of terror by your very own brother? Spill it in the comments, commies.
Follow @daisy on Twitter where she’s always total normal and never ever dramatic. Like ever.