Never Fully Dressed: An Expose on Being Exposed

by Kayla Schmidt

You either come from a naked family or an all-dressed family.

That was my roommate’s claim, at least. There were five girls sharing the house, which had limited bathroom space, and it was clear some were more comfortable with their bodies than others.

“I’m sorry what does that mean?” asked one of the girls as she stood at the gas range, pushing bacon around in a pan, clearly not worried about the proximity of leaping hot grease to her bare midriff. She had the tendency to wear cropped tops regardless of the weather, or and especially if one of us brought a male friend over. Very sheer tops with very black bras underneath.

“Well some people grow up in families where nudity in the home is just fine. They like walk around undressed, and that’s just the norm. Other families never see one another until they’re fully clothed. What kind of families do you come from?”

The kind of family I come from is my dad leaping out from behind the china cabinet in his long underwear proclaiming, “Power Ranger White!” None of the actual Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers had waffle-fabric suits with holes in the waistband. This did not bother him.

My dad has his own bathroom on the opposite side of the house. It’s got a pocket door and an automatic fan that turns on with the light. The toilet paper holder is shaped like a fishing reel. In the morning on the way to his bathroom, he has to pass in front of the giant dining room windows wearing his Fruit of the Looms while my mom hisses, “The neighbors will see you.” But no matter if he’s in long johns or mowing the lawn without a shirt, he never goes anywhere without his mid-calf white socks. I won’t waste any descriptive language on them—you know the type. Surely we aren’t a naked family if the tallest member is never seen barefoot? Dad-socks must cover enough square-footage of flesh to place us solidly in the classier side of the clothed spectrum?

The girls shared the larger bathroom. All four of us: myself, two sisters, and our mom. If we saw her undressed, it was usually due to the fact that she was trying to get all of us ready. Often she’d get distracted in the midst of putting pants on to fix one of my sister’s French braids while the dog followed her around, licking lotion off her bare legs.

My mom was very conscious that we should see all body shapes as beautiful and that the female form is nothing to be ashamed of. This is in contrast to my grandmother, who provided advice such as, “Don’t get old, your body will look like shit.”

Sometimes my dad would go on fishing trips and all us girls would get to spread a blanket on the living room floor and watch movies. Mom would bring out popcorn and milkshakes on a tray and would only set it down once the blanket was spread nice and flat. We discovered that if you really drug your hand across the pilled fibers of the comforter to remove all the wrinkles and then ran over to the TV screen and got your nose real close, close enough to see the tiny squares that made the picture, you’d get a shock just big enough that each sister standing on either side could see the tiny bolt of electricity leap from the screen to your face. Wonder of wonders.

We were allowed to watch the scene in Titanic where Jack draws a portrait of Rose. At one point Mom suddenly paused the VHS tape, facing us very somberly, which we thought was odd, because nothing was sinking at that point in the plot. The front case of the second VHS tape already showed the ship half submerged, so it wasn’t like she was going to tell us anything we didn’t already know. Any movie that had two tapes included a disaster. That’s what we learned from Fiddler on the Roof.

“Now, I think you girls are very grown up. This next part shows body parts, but it’s okay because it’s art, okay girls?” We weren’t allowed to watch the steamy make-out car scene. I don’t know why a handprint on a fogged window was deemed inappropriate but thousands of people slowly freezing to death was still okay by Mom’s standards. We snuck a lot of popcorn to the dog while Mom cried and the ship split in two.

“Consent” wasn’t a really big buzzword as my sisters and I grew up. We of course knew to be wary of strangers, but the boundaries of our bodily selves in our own home was wholly dependent on space, the existence and lack of it. The bathroom had a lock, but it was only for emergencies. If someone had to brush their teeth and you drank too many Capri Sun packets, well you should have synced your schedules better. I have a twin sister so privacy has probably always been an implicit sacrifice for me. There was no room in utero for secrets and no spare countertop space in the bathroom growing up.

“Okay, but are we weird for just hanging out in our pajamas on the weekends even when we have guests?” I asked my little sister.

“I think we just might be casual. I mean Mom grew up with only sisters. We’ve all been in different sports and in sororities and stuff. You just have to get over it in those situations.” She shifted so I could grab a shirt off the door hook.

“But in all my shared apartments I never went out of my room half-dressed unless I was super sure everyone was gone.”

“Accidents happen. It only takes someone seeing you flee down the hall in a towel to know that you took a chance. How’s this look?”

This conversation was happening in a department store dressing room, where we opted to share a stall. It’s economical and saves a lot of opening and closing doors to compare outfits.

“You look great, but what about the toilet seat cover?” I asked. Erica didn’t know what I meant.

A few weeks ago I’d stopped by our parents’ for a visit. As I adjusted my hair in the bathroom mirror, I registered something was off. Like in a dream when you’re in your house, but all of a sudden the oven is situated on the opposite wall or you decide to try a new cream cheese flavor on a bagel and your taste buds don’t recognize what’s happening at first.

The toilet seat cover was gone.

My dad might not wear pants when he lets the dog out, but I have never, not once, seen the toilet lid bare and out in the open.

I don’t know where the trend for fuzzy, elastic-banded toilet covers came from. We’ve always had one, and they’ve always matched the rug. It’s like a complete ensemble. My mom’s bathroom could share the dressing room stall with my sister and me. “Does this bring out the blue in my shower curtain? Do you think this makes my tank look big?”

We used to play with the toilet seat covers when they came out of the dryer, tossing them in the air and spinning them on the tips of our fingers. They were hot, like a pizza. Or a French beret that had been sitting in le soleil.

In the early ’90s it was peach. By the 2000s we’d swapped for powder blue. At the time it was last seen, it was a stylish yet subtle tan. Purchased at Bed Bath and Beyond, in the bath section I believe. This wasn’t the Kmart layaway toilet cover of my past. In fact, as a housewarming gift for my first solo apartment, my mom bought me a toilet seat cover with a matching rug. It’s our version of a “Home Sweet Home” needlepoint.

“The last one shrank in the wash and we just haven’t found a new one that fits the curves right,” my mom told me with nonchalance. It’s almost as if she didn’t realize how shocking this was. It was alright for my sister to lie out in the backyard with her shirt rolled up to expose her midriff to the sun (which heats up many things, like French berets or Midwesterners seeking a tan)—that was porcelain skin. This was actual porcelain.

A bare surface that I find shocking is not a glimpse of spine (too many scoliosis checks in childhood for that), it’s an exposed chest: cedar must always have a doily on top. It’s a sturdy leg without a tablecloth, however crooked placed on top. A handle isn’t loved unless someone hangs their coat on it. Mooning is when the evening light exposes countertops full of phone bills and books and a man in not-so-tighty-whities tiptoeing in front of the expanse of dining room windows. And now, la lune will only ever shine on the naked surface of the bathroom toilet seat.

There’s a difference between familial nudity—where the space you occupy is the dominant factor, not your state of undress—and the nudity we’re familiar with through the media—where the aesthetic of the body is the main focus. Rose wasn’t prancing around her stately room on the Titanic in a silky robe trying to floss while finishing writing a grocery list. She had a special occasion for which she had to disrobe. In our house, occasionally the robe is occupied by the dog for a napping spot so you just get on with it.

I live alone now, which means I have all the privacy I could want. I overcompensate, probably. I don’t even try to wear socks in the house. So maybe call first before you stop by. But if it’s furniture dressing you’re looking for, I’ve got you covered. l

KAYLA SCHMIDT grew up in Minot, North Dakota, where she earned her bachelor of arts degree in English at Minot State University. In 2015 she received her master of arts degree in creative nonfiction and biography at the University of East Anglia in England. She’s now a content creator for the Bismarck Beacon, a volunteer with 1 Million Cups, and goes by “Rhubarbarian” when she’s playing for the BisMan Bombshellz roller derby team. Find more at kaylaschmidt.com.