Why I Just Can’t Sleep in the Nude
Take it all off and get into bed? Not tonight, dear.
I don’t know how some people do it.
Night after night, they slip into something more comfortable and then slip out of it, climb into bed, and proceed to sleep soundly for eight or so hours — sometimes on their backs! Good God, what are they thinking?!
It’s not so much the uninterrupted sleep that I don’t get, though I never actually get it. I’ve heard some grown people sleep like babies. (Don’t newborns always wake up crying in the middle of the night?) And I can see the appeal of sleeping on one’s back, even if that’s the position most likely to induce nightmares, night terrors, and sleep paralysis after I doze off.
The part of the aforementioned bedtime ritual that has always confounded me is the part where the clothes come off.
Now anyone who knows me knows I’m no prude when it comes to attire. There have been nights when I’ve doffed my top at gay clubs, jumped onstage or on some raised platform where only go-go boys usually tread, and proudly displayed to the crowd what Pilates, strength training, and long-distance running gave me.
There have been nights when I’ve doffed my top at gay clubs, jumped onstage or on some raised platform where only go-go boys usually tread, and proudly displayed to the crowd what Pilates, strength training, and long-distance running gave me.
But when it comes to sleeping au natural, there’s something about it that just seems so unnatural. I don’t even like going to bed shirtless. And this is from someone who always finds underwear totally encumbering!
Love, sleep, and nudity
Now that I’m in love and have someone to go to sleep with and wake up next to, I still join him under the covers in my nighttime uniform: track pants and a t-shirt.
Thankfully, my boyfriend doesn’t adhere to the same bedtime dress code. I love feeling his naked body pressed against the cotton covering mine. If he has a problem with my “pajamas,” he hasn’t said anything. No wonder we sleep so well together.
The only time I make an exception and leave my “PJs” on the bedroom floor is when sleep follows afterglow. My first boyfriend used to drive me crazy by insisting on taking a shower after we had sex. It would have been equally baffling if he’d concluded afterglow by getting out of bed, putting on his clothes, and getting back into bed.
Getting dressed after sex is the sort of thing you do if you don’t plan on spending the night, or if you’re sneaking out before the other person wakes up, or if you decide to stay for breakfast after morning sex. I’m sure some people do it, but I can’t think of any circumstance under which eating in the nude would be appropriate.
I’m sure some people do it, but I can’t think of any circumstance under which eating in the nude would be appropriate.
I always dress for meals, not just dinner. I may not make them black-tie occasions, but I generally cover at least 75 percent of my body.
I do the same whenever I’m home alone. I often hear people talk about how they like to lounge around the house naked, as if it’s the ultimate benefit of not having roommates. But why?
What purpose does that serve? Friends once dedicated an entire episode to it, and I still don’t understand why Rachel couldn’t sing Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby” in track pants and a tank top and still feel like a natural, liberated woman.
I’ve jogged around the parks of Buenos Aires with nothing on but running pants and trainers, but I refuse to run around the house naked — or even shirtless.
It’s not like one has to get undressed to be comfortable while doing housework or watching TV or eating a sandwich? Vacuuming in the nude just seems so unnecessary when I can do it in my track pants and a “Mr. Perfect” t-shirt.
Who can it be now?
And then, of course, there’s the possibility of unexpected visitors, particularly in the middle of the night, like the angel of death. I’m less concerned with leaving a beautiful corpse than I am with leaving one that’s not reasonably clothed. Death definitely will not become me if my junk is exposed for whomever discovers my lifeless body to see.
On a less fatal note, I don’t own a robe or anything I can slip into quickly in case of an unexpected act of nature, or arson, or unexpected visitors who are not the angel of death and who are not looking for a booty call. So if there should be an earthquake, a fire, or something equally catastrophic in the middle of the night, I’m always dressed for the occasion.
I could go on and on with all the reasons I prefer to sleep with something separating my skin from the sheets, but I need to get dressed for bed. Now where is “Mr. Perfect”? If I can’t wear the guy, I might as well wear the t-shirt!