The Harlequin Ichthyosis Case: the display of excessive skin
Oopsie, I have purposefully leaked mi nudes. Send the above image to your loved ones and tell them I said hi.
I am a woman. Such a bold statement to make, but after a pep talk or two and surplus amount of menstruation, I have come to terms with it. I am one. Yet, as this reality sinks in, I am struck by the limitations of what I can share with the world. The fact that I can't throw my tampons like a bouquet into a crowd while the nation fights to have a taste of my gene fills me with fury. My fair skin being entrapped with a resemblance of what could be a Mormon attire is a shame, a true atrocity, leaving so much to the imagination which, let's be real, isn't all it's cracked up to be. The tales of my grippers would have been a philosophical muse, one that's worth of display. My unspoken skills of retracting the foreskin with nothing but a wink or the magic of a selfie stick would make a grown man cry. The wet dreams of a Jew is what I am. The discussion of, for the lack of better terms, my vagina, has created political stances. The exposure of 10 percent of my hooters would have resolved wars. Not to be too literary, but democracy can't be spelled without double D's. I fear to be a brag drag, but I am your favorite rapper's lyrical drool; behold the term 'bitches' was actually ancestrally claimed by me. I have singlehandedly kept that industry afloat. That's just me, Eden, or, for some lucky fella, your last supper baby.
(Wait for laughs and proceed.)
Again, I am a woman. The description of me in a frivolous nature is a segue to a wider topic, womanhood, the threads of which, for one, have been carefully sewn into layers upon layers of clothing, which has been the main reason behind my scoff. It's ridiculous how the mere sight of bare skin of any kind from a lady is frowned upon by many. The masses would attest to the gates of hell being one thong away, which sure is a pity, I tell you.
The ongoing saga of 'how much skin is too much' has captured my attention mainly because society is yet to make up its dang mind about it. A glimpse of your ankle sheath or a clavicle crease can possibly get you stoned. Your short shorts and SpongeBob-themed cropped tank tops are labeled to be scantily clad; nothing but a Jezebel attire. While, on the other hand, as a real kicker, a décolletage neckline dress is lauded as the epitome of elegance; a backless Dior gown is the height of sophistication, style, and grace. A slit dress with a slight hint of the labia majora is said to be tasteful, so grab your spoons, lads. There seems to be a disconnect here; it's clearly not about the acres of skin on display but rather the fit of the garment. The modesty discourse seems to fall short when it's a Versace dress. And ain't that a real doozie.
The harlequin ichthyosis case, which I dubbed jestfully, sheds light on society's aversion to excessive skin exposure, akin to that of a skin condition. What did you feel when you saw the initial image? Disgust? A settled dislike? Or a full-blown antipathy? If so, buddy, you're part of the 'Oh no, skin!' squad. The image depicts an infant, one that has been labeled 'evil baby' all for a show of surplus dermis. Poor kiddo! Although far-fetched, the connection can be made between the squeamishness people get over a little extra epidermis of an infant and the clamor that's attained over that of the exposure of a woman's skin (and if society has such a visceral reaction just over extra dermis of a baby, will there ever be a day when a woman's skin flaunt-fest becomes the norm? Would all this chatter be in vain? I will leave the answer for you). Imagine if that exact epidermis was all silky and floral, that would have 'trendsetter of the century' written all over it. It would be fashion's new frontier in a heartbeat.
Addressing this grand hypocrisy has left women in a quandary, stranded with a soul choice of figuring it out on their own while society remains unsure. Amidst this chaos, movements like 'Wear Whatever You Want,' fueled by a medley of Lizzo's empowering g-string collections, have emerged, which, at the possibility of sounding crass, is a movement I can get behind. This movement, albeit its questionable choices, is a slightly more appealing illusion, one of better choice than the alternative of blindly adhering to societal norms of wearing more and abiding by the constant quest for women to cover themselves up, where even the said society has been proven to remain indecisive over. It would be the reasoning of the silly to fall for such a scam.
But aye, man, what happened to good old nudity?
The evolution of fashion and nudity mirrors a tragic comedy; the naked body, which was once a symbol of the perfection of the gods, is now often seen as a scandalous act, a public indecency, or worse yet, a ticket to five years behind bars. Damn you, capitalism!
We tend to forget that clothing is a behavioral adaptation technique rather than a necessity, which allows for personal expression. If you can withstand the constant pesky insect bites and tick infestations, even being naked and going au naturel becomes a viable option, my friend. Embrace the freedom, shed a tear if needed, and revel in your primal urges. Now, I fear the sheer mention of the word 'primal' will attract the alph-ie males; I can hear their howls of disapproval from the abyss. The clicking sound they make as they suckle on the toes of George Costanza, their celestial highness, the omniscient bossman, is like sweet music to my ears, a siren call for my kind of crowd. I will leave a subtle meow for you, Chads. Purrrr!
