A DAD'S LIFE:Men don't need to know the naked truth, writes ADAM BROPHY
I CAN’T bring the girls into swimming changing rooms with me any more. The elder is 10 for God’s sake, nearly as tall as some of the auld lads sauntering round in the buff. They don’t need a cheeky kid giggling at their bits. I certainly don’t need that.
And giggle she did. They used to have a sign posted on the way in stating that girls were welcome up to the age of seven. She hit eight and became concerned at having to manage herself in the Ladies’ while I looked after her sister.
That wouldn’t do, so we prepped her to lie about her date of birth if ever confronted (something I’m sure she’ll get very smooth at in just a few more years, except in the opposite direction) and she continued to change with me.
There is one private changing area in the Men’s at my gym, designed for parents and kids. You can lock the door and perform any sartorial requirements before ushering them through the room full of flapping appendages out to the pool. Occasionally that room would be engaged and we’d take our place with the rest of the hairy men. Knowing they should really be elsewhere, the girls would point and stare in ways they thought were subtle. We all know how subtle small girls are.
But sometimes this worked better than when the private room was available, because at least in the bull pen they had to behave themselves. Inside, they could crouch on the ground and peer out under the door as male flesh juddered under towelling and Munster rugby was discussed in full bass voice.
From here, unseen to a point, they could compare and contrast to their heart’s content, at least until I pulled them off the ground and reminded them they were at the pool not the zoo.
The same would happen on return. Having inserted them into the showers with strict instructions to wash hair and get out, I’d wind up dragging them out of the stalls, hooting and howling at the wobble and flap of various male parts.
Our position became untenable: mine in particular. Men do not like to be made uncomfortable in a changing room. This is alone time, where we can prep and preen, unseen by unforgiving female eyes.
Kids, of either gender, are barely tolerated, but ones of the opposite sex who can engage you in conversation as you attempt to contort your way out of togs are distinctly unwelcome.
Eventually I overcame my own separation anxiety and banished the elder to the Ladies’, and her sister with her. Some day soon I expect the remaining clientele to start talking to me again. Some may not, and I would like to take this opportunity to assure those particularly offended few that, in most circles, they actually wouldn’t be considered smaller than average.
I don’t like the idea of segregated changing areas anyway. It means that sometimes you must be separated from your kids in an unfamiliar environment, which can cause both parties distress.
Many pools provide a communal area with single cubicles. Apart from that, it’s all in together, whether you like it or not. The mystique of the “other room” is destroyed.
Kids love anything that makes their parents uncomfortable. At the first sign of unease they’re on you like a rash. Whatever it is that makes you squirm – talking money, sex, nudity, politics, religion, vegetarianism, doping in professional cycling – they’ll sniff it out and make it their sole focus of attention until your ears bleed. And if there’s one thing that makes most of us squirm, it’s the notion of our bodies being on display.
I’ve been reading about naturists strutting their stuff on various south Dublin beaches and have been perturbed by the reactions they have provoked. I for one am not about to drop my Calvins and join them; social conditioning has had its way with me and this dog is unlikely to learn new naked tricks.
But if the brats were to witness the appearance of a nudie and get beyond the hilarity it would cause, to a point where they too would like to throw caution – and their clothes – to the wind, have a go at it I would say.
Run with your bouncy bits bouncing and swim in a way the sea salt can sting. Just stay out of the Men’s changing room.