Mini Blizzards and Skinny Dipping

Dairy Queen has come out with a new blizzard size: the mini blizzard.  Advertisements posted around the joint display an actual-size picture of the mini blizzard, roughly half the size of a medium blizzard.  Intrigued by this pint-sized health ploy, I ordered one on my way to Odell Lake with some friends.  The employee seemed like every other boy who was in my high school genetics class: short hair, slight scowl, brazen I-don't-give-a-f*** attitude.  I shall call him Mini-B.  Mini-B took my order and begrudgingly grabbed a tiny cup: the birthplace of my mini blizzard.  He placed the tiny cup under the nozzle and swirled creamy-goodness into it.  He was only able to hold it there for about five seconds before the cup was near overflow; then Mini-B slid it onto the counter, looked at me with a face that screamed why-do-I-still-work-at-a-Dairy-Queen-in-a-tiny-town-of-3,000-people-and-no-opportunities, and snarled: "Here's your half-blizzard."

Now, I am aware that I recently described the mini-blizzard as being "roughly half the size of a medium blizzard."  Mini-B's ability to eyeball measurements was accurate enough.  But his bitter attitude towards my tiny dessert was slightly offensive.  I figured he was sizing me up behind the counter as a weight-obsessed teenage girl, the kind who orders Starbucks frappuccinos, licks the whipped cream off the top and throws the rest away.  Little did he know, I had eaten a maple bar and a half that same morning.

My friends and I arrived at Odell Lake at dusk, and, after unpacking, decided to admire the lake from the dock.  The water lapped at the wood beneath our feet, as if it were beckoning to us.  The lake was deliciously green and full of ripples, and while Lilly spoke on the phone to her parents, we discussed jumping into it.  When Lilly got off the phone, she exclaimed "did someone say they wanted to go skinny-dipping?!"  None of us had mentioned it, but the idea, to paraphrase Leonardo DiCaprio, took hold of our minds and spread like a cancer.  It was something none of us had ever done before; it was liberation from the oppressive confinement of clothing.  Plus, it was so Into the Wild-esque.  We had to do it.

Sadly, one member of the party, Sara, denied the nude invitation.  She feared that some sinister seaweed would come alive and grab her ankle, dragging her naked body into the murky depths of the lake.  Somehow, clothes would make this scenario better.  Anyway, we left Sara behind at the cabin and marched toward the dock like rebels, with towels slung over our shoulders like we didn't give a f***.  We were bad-ass and we knew it.  Our clothes were just begging to be ripped off.

The ripping-off process, however, was halted by the presence of a bright light, emitting from a neighboring dock.  The stars above provided the only other illumination, and created the effect of a bejeweled sky.  The foreign boat light posed a threat to our plans, because it indicated dockside activity.  Sure enough, we saw the shuffling of a man inside the boat.  No one wants to skinny dip while a forty-something man watches on from the neighboring dock.  Well, maybe some people do, but I don't.

"We can wait until the man goes back inside" said Lilly.  We all breathed a sigh of relief.  We didn't want this man to thwart our plans.  This was our own private rebellion.

Suddenly the light was out, and we heard the man shuffle back into his cabin.  We were alone, surrounded by watery darkness.  The plan was real.  We all began to strip.  The fervor we felt while walking down to the dock, however, had dissipated, and a languid, hesitant mood had taken its place.  We undressed slowly and delicately, and then took our places at the edge of the dock.

I looked down at the dark, questionable water, and realized how cold it was going to be; I would finally know how it felt like to be Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic (never too many Leo references).  This latter prospect both intrigued and disturbed me.  Still, I had to decide which was worse: standing butt-naked on a dock while a cold wind literally whips my ass, or sucking it up and jumping into uncertainty.  Uncertainty is always better than a certain ass-whipping, so I knew it was time.  "I'm going on the count of three," I told my comrades.  "One...Two...Three!"

I jumped in instinctively.  It's funny how countdowns eliminate over-analysis and allow the mind to overcome fears.  I heard splashes on either side of me as I crashed into the water.  We were all in the lake.  Naked.  And it was cold.

But only for a minute or two.  Once we swam around, the water temperature was almost pleasant.  Plus, we didn't care that much.  We were naked and swimming and liberated.  "We should always swim like this!" Someone exclaimed with accompanying fist-pump.  At least that's how I pictured it in my head.

But I concur.  We should always swim naked.  Figuratively anyway.  We should strip off our superficiality, our complexity and our guards, and jump together into the mystical abyss.