We have impossible standards of beauty.
Which makes me wonder why we often depict the space alien visitors as symmetrical, naked, and grey.
When I examine myself in the mirror, at the very best there are only two of those three criteria, which reassures me that I am not from somewhere else. That's an experiment you can do at home, and you are encouraged to do so. It will also persuade you of the wisdom of limiting your nudity to your own quarters, even though somewhere there is buff beefcake.
Today will be noticeably cooler than yesterday, so the temptation to be reckless will be considerably less. I slept in my baggy boxers last night.
Later I will be wearing a similar pair when I go out for lunch. There is absolutely no way I'm strolling down Stockton Street nude.
You may rest assured, there will be much more clothing than just that.
Middle-aged men need pockets. Keys, lighter, matches on one side, coins watch and wallet the other side, notebook for neurotic jotting in the shirt pocket, plus elsewhere pipe cleaners, tobacco, briars, and tamper too.
Little boys also need pockets, because it's where you stash the chance-met frog for showing to your mom later.
[Did that once. She wasn't impressed.]
Hot weather does not make me disrobe. If you want that, please provide a table with a beverage, a place to sit, and an ashtray. If I'm comfortable and at ease I will exchange the restrictive clothing for the lounge chair, and then perhaps we can discuss Kant and Heidegger.
Please read up on both of those worthies.
About whom I know very little.
You can educate me.
It'll be fun.
Today's baggy boxers for just lounging about feature little grey octopuses. Octopodes. Space aliens.
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