naked in barra

I have become a cultural cliché.

Yesterday afternoon the DHL driver showed up at my front door with a delivery from Amazon. Without giving it a second thought, I answered the door. Nothing unusual there. But I was wearing only my underwear. In his haste to be gone, the driver nearly tossed my package to me.

What has happened to me? I was raised in a family where what we wear says a lot about who we are. My mother would never leave the house without thinking through what clothes she should be wearing.

Her father took that a step further. When he worked in the garden, he wore a fedora, a jacket, and a tie. I don't think I ever saw him in public without that sartorial trio.

And here I am in Mexico dropping all of that tradition faster than I doff my clothes.

When I took my clothes to the laundry yesterday, I was a bit surprised at how few clothing items were in the bag. But I know why. I have turned into one of those overweight northerners who lives out his day in his swim trunks.

The trunks make some sense. The arrival of the coronavirus in our municipality has once again restricted my activities. I primarily stay in the house. And because the summer is upon us, the pool is the best refuge for eating meals and reading.

Thus, the trunks. At least, I wear trunks. Enough people come and go through my front door each day that I do not want to frighten the horses in the street -- or them -- with my Winston Churchill impression. And I have not yet devolved to the stage where I wander around town in nothing but my trunks. In other words, I am not quite yet the cultural cliché I fear I am becoming.

Young people call it "just giving up." I may be on that path. But if any of you see me wandering around Barra shirtless, shoeless, and wearing nothing but my bathing trunks, just book me into a treatment center. Don't bother asking my permission.

There must be a 12-step program for the affliction.