November 13, 2002

Sometimes I think the most memorable moments in life are unplanned. And surely one of the best for me was the Night of the Primper. While in grad school, I lived on the third floor of Toad Hall, an apartment house on campus. One Friday afternoon, in a room down the hall, music was playing and people were chatting. The gathering blossomed into a casual party.

As dusk fell, the lights came on in the men's dorm across the way and residents began preparing themselves for an evening on the town. Of course, most of the women on campus knew to close their curtains at this hour. Peeping Toms with binoculars, or even Questar telescopes ("Dad, I'm really interested in astronomy"), were often scanning the horizon for unguarded moments, delightful surprises, or perhaps that 'once in a college career' thunderbolt of an exhibitionist. But male students never thought anybody might be watching them, and so when one of the women in the room said, "Hey, I think that guy's taking his clothes off," we all turned to look and by gosh she was right. We also realized that the dorm had three floors, with eight rooms on each floor, and there was something going on in all 24 windows. It was better than cable TV.

As it was the young lady's apartment, the gentlemen happily yielded the front row, and responded to the call for binoculars. In addition to optical aids, we also offered our considerable experience and mentored the neophytes, showing them how to rest on their elbows so the binoculars wouldn't shake, prompted them to pull back and pan occasionally so as not to miss a better episode in another window, and explained peculiarly male behaviors and grooming rituals. The variety of viewing was marvelous. In one smoke-filled room, a beachball traced lazy arcs through the upper atmosphere. In another, two furtive voyeurs zoomed in on our window and were shocked to discover a roomful of people with drinks waving back at them.

But the best display of the evening came from the Primper. "What's he doing?" one woman asked, pointing out a young man wearing only a white towel. Ever the narrator, I said, "He's getting ready to go out. He's primping." His work at the mirror continued with a complexion check, hair combing and a cologne splash, but then, oddly, he did not dress, but left the room, still in his towel. Ten minutes later, his hair wet from the shower, he returned and began getting ready all over again. "The Primper is back," someone said, and while we watched, he repeated his routine. To our amazement, he left the room a third time, again with soap and shampoo. In all, he got ready to go out four times that night. But after the last shower and primp... he turned out the lights and went to bed.

At the time, we theorized he was too embarrassed to admit he didn't have a date. But we will never know for sure. Perhaps he just loved the camaraderie of the showers, the scented steam, the sense of anticipation, the promise that hung in the air.