An inner battle: Can she bare all?

Heather Gordon Ride With Me

To run or not to run, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of cheering onlookers gaping at your naked white butt (among other things), or to be part of the cowardly crowd. As these last few days speed to their inevitable end here for me in Ann Arbor, I am faced with possibly the most pivotal question of my life - whether or not I should, in fact, run in the Naked Mile.

For many, I am sure, this is hardly an issue - when faced with the option of getting butt-ass stanky wasted and then running buck nekkid through campus with the better part of the University community rooting you on, the answer is, "Do cows have butts?" Indeed, it is a veritable exhibitionist's wet dream; instead of slinking around with that suspicious trench coat, he can just whip it out and revel in his glory, leaping free through the streets while all applaud. But for an ultra-neurotic like me (just think Woody Allen without the incest tendencies), it has to become some silly cerebral issue to be debated over coffee, between the warring factions in my splitting psyche.

Personality A (Zelda) thinks that it is an awful idea for so many reasons, namely involving me being, without even a wedgie to shield me, in front of friends and foes alike, not to mention the fact that it is usually rather cold out there, or the potential pain of a mile of unsupported breast bobbage.

Personality B (Frank) counters with the standard attack of, "Oh, get over it. It is only a body. It is a once in a lifetime chance. Grab some Saran Wrap and pretend you are on the treadmill. Yadda yadda yadda." And so on and so forth, until the thorazine kicks in.

So, the thing is, now I am torn. I have witnessed three Naked Miles in my time, so I know what they are all about. The night I came out to visit this campus, when I was a mere senior in high school deciding on my college career, just so happened to be the last day of classes, so there I was, a naive little 17-year-old from Boston (where we stay clothed under all circumstances - it is a fact), watching a bunch of naked college hooligans bounding through the snow on an April night.

My parents managed to accidentally get hold of my pictures from the event (yes, I am a pervert; sue me) and like to joke that that is why I selected this school. Since then, I have seen a whole host of delightful spectacles on this nude night, including, but not limited to, a lovely gent riding a motorcycle with a face painted on his chestal region and a fat dude pushing a dog in a wheelchair. But never have I ever been able to conceive of one of the runners as me.

But now I am a senior and the fever is catching on. The major part of me is still not into displaying my wares in front of people who I have been watching "ER" with and bitching about boyfriends to for these past four years, because you know I will be damned if I run alone. Besides, if I am going to be skivvy-less that near to perfect strangers, I had better have a contract and be getting paid extra for lap dances.

Yet, it is not like anyone will really see anything, right? Cuz' you are running by so fast that people have a choice to look at either your face or other more southerly parts, but one must have terribly deft eyes to catch sight of both. And what if they do catch a glimpse of the sacred Heather-ness? It is not like I am disfigured and I am revealing my true-all hermaphroditism to anyone with the misfortune to glance waistwards. I mean, no one has turned to stone yet (except that one guy, but I snuck up on him). Not to mention the courageous men who go out there on the nippliest of evenings, and submit to public shrinkage scrutiny.

And to add fuel to the fire, I am starting to get some serious peer pressure to take the plunge, in the form of statements reminding me of my hypocrisy (in that I am the type of person to air my dirty laundry for the whole school, but not my clean breasts), that I will regret missing this opportunity, and that I am just plain old chicken. I have never been one to back down from a dare, and in theory it looks so tempting, but I mean Jesus G-d, do I really want to run down South U. in the buff?

So, now I have got myself all worked up into a tizzy. I cannot work, I cannot sleep. The opening Hamlet metaphor becomes extended into a conceit, if you will, as like the tragic prince of Denmark, I am in such a state as to be stuck in a pit of indecision and inaction. Do any of you other fence-sitters out there have the key to rationalizing one decision or the other, because I am desperate here. I need help. Insight. Guidance. The fate of my nudity this Tuesday might just be in your hands. Or else I might just trash the whole idea and kill the entire court of Denmark instead. I will miss you kiddies.

- Heather Gordon can be reached for only two more weeks at yutz@umich.edu.

04-18-97