At age seven, I had a crush on Linda Ronstadt. Don’t laugh, dammit! She was hot in 1975. At age seven, my son has a crush on Alexis, his snuggle-cuddle-wuvybear, or whatever the phrase is kids use these days. I would prefer if he were less realistic, like me. I am pretty sure the odds of an “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” moment were considerably longer for me and Linda. Fortunately, it hasn’t happened yet for either of us. As a parent, I have to consider that it likely will eventually. Hopefully it will occur at my house rather than elsewhere so that I can calmly explain that yes, curiosity is normal, but this is America, so it would probably be best if you both learn to be a bit more uptight about your bodies and nudity, just like everyone else.

I don’t remember any “show me” moments at that age for me. I had Melanie, my tree-climbing, underwear-shunning neighbor girl to keep my curiosity satisfied. Well, that and a nudist colony that I went to frequently during the summers. All those acres of undressed and under-exercised, wrinkling and saggy oldies left me with a preference to view the human body in all of its clothed glory. Leave something to the imagination, because the real thing doesn’t seem to hold up to gravity or the ravages of time that well. Most of those wrinkled and saggy oldies were probably younger than I am now, which is a sobering thought. Still, I was glad for Melanie and her skirts, and her insistence on climbing first. I wonder if she still likes climbing trees.

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