Different cultures have different views of what is and isn’t
acceptable regarding dress code. Most of the time I understand and accept
these views but this week I’ve been troubled by a nude finger. In fact, I’ve
been troubled by the fact that I’ve been troubled by a nude finger, but more of
that later.
I’ve just started reading Barbara Kingsolver’s The
Poisonwood Bible. The fiery Baptist Minister and his
young family have been dropped into a tiny isolated village in Central Africa.
The locals want to welcome them but the Minister is outraged by their nudity,
picking out an unfortunate lady to preach his views at. In the words of his
daughter, “…Her big long breasts lay flat on her chest like they’d been pressed
down with an iron, but she did seem heedless of it…” The villagers didn’t speak
a word of English yet that Minister left them in no doubt of his feelings
regarding “…nakedness and the darkness of the soul…”
It’s all about perceptions. The story goes on to mention that
the women of this tribe would never leave their homes without first covering
their legs down to their ankles and yet their breasts remained uncovered and unnoticed…
by the locals at least.
Here in the UK in the 21st century we’re used to
religious dress codes. I certainly would never go to my Synagogue without wearing
a skirt that was below-knee length and a top that covered my arms and front. It’s
called ‘modest’ clothing and it can be easily explained and understood.
Not so easily explained are concerns over wearing night clothes outside the house. I still can’t watch Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy without squirming at Arthur Dent in his
dressing gown. I don’t know why. He’s not showing anything untoward, but then my
dressing gown is also perfectly decent, covering me from neck to ankle but I’d
hate to be seen in public wearing it.
So now I’ve admitted that I have ‘dress-code’ issues
but this week’s ‘nude finger episode’ came as a surprise even to me. Last
weekend I had an arthritis flare-up. My fingers ballooned embedding my wedding
ring firmly below the knuckle. I tried all the usual methods of freeing metal
from finger but in the end decided to ‘sit it out’. On Tuesday morning I
managed to ease the ring off but I now had a naked finger. Had it been winter I might
have grabbed my woolly gloves. Instead I slipped surreptitiously into a local jewellery shop
and bought the cheapest silver ring they had. The difference I felt as I
emerged from that shop, ring on finger, is quite inexplicable.
Do you have any unusual dress-code issues?
