Locker Room Etiquette

Sometimes it is funny, and sometimes a little unnerving how established behavioral conventions completely disappear inside a locker room. For the fat, hairy-footed stockbroker, removing his clothing is apparently much more than a metaphor. He has been given the green light to do deep knee bends and touch his toes, fully nude, inches from my face while I lace my sneakers. How outlandish, I must wonder, is his fully-clothed life? Does he have no concept of personal space (and the invasion thereof) when he is clothed? Why not do your naked aerobics in the comfort of your own home? Being unclothed and naked is natural, freeing, and beautiful (as long as you don't stare too critically). Again, I have to wonder what magic vortex does one walk through when one leaves the gym floor, and enters the Locker Room, and why do I seem to be impervious to it? Who is this strange man, large and covered in tattoos, that felt no impetus to converse with me, until he had removed his clothes? I do not come to the locker room to search for intimacy. I go there because that's where I store my shit.

There are the obvious exhibitionists, but that's easy to explain. They like to be looked at, and so some oblige and stare and thus encourage the extrovert to keep on exhibiting. Whatever. That's not what I'm getting at. Where is that wet bar of soap, that elusive explanation for what drives a man to shed his socialization along with his trousers? There is no easy answer.

In high school, I would frequent the YMCA, for their gym was nice and reasonably cheap. I could work out in relative anonymity and quiet, and focus my mind. Until, one fateful day I was changing in the locker room, stuffing my sweaty clothes away and turning to leave, when, out of the corner of my eye who should I see, fully nude, weighing himself on the scale, but my painting teacher. He noticed me (and my friend Peter who I was with) and had the decency to put on a threadbare pair of fruit-of-the-looms before accosting us.

"What are you guys doing here?" His hands were on his hips, and he had not finished drying himself off.

"Uh, you know, we just worked out, and now, um, we're, uh, gonna leave," I said.

Palpable silence, but my painting professor continued breathing deeply as though he'd finished running miles, arms akimbo, and smiling like he'd just been given a trophy.

My point is this: he never said much of anything in class, when it would have been appropriate to do so. There were the obvious critiques of whatever piece I was working on, but no casual conversation, before or after class.

The trend continues into adulthood. I thought it was hormones of the terminally awkward teenage years flooding my brain and making me hypersensitive to uncomfortable situations. Now I see that there is an entire subculture too which I am not privy and will never be anything beyond a casual observer. Therefore, I can only guess at the motivations of the initiated.

I can also declare, to a large degree of certainty, that the trend is specific to males. I asked the Girlfriend to investigate this peculiar phenomenon in the Women's Locker Room, and her response was, "there are a lot of boobies, but not much talking." Very helpful. How far will the real estate agent let himself slide? Will he, when he has been intoxicated by the aroma of foot and groin and Lysol, one day accidentally reach forward and shake my penis instead of my hand? I fear so. What then, will be my reaction? Eye contact of a fierce nature that says, "hey man, WAY inappropriate," or will I punch him on the nose? Neither. Behavioral conventions have not completely eroded in the locker room but, sans clothing, the day draws near when I foresee my strength to continually resist failing, and then sad will be the day when we sniff each other in greeting as do dogs.