Blowing in the Wind, Not?

There are times when I cannot really believe what country I live in; no, what planet I live on.  The New York Times tomorrow’s edition explains to me the painful problem of association rules prohibiting people who live in ‘private communities’ (and according to the Times, 60 million Americans currently live in such communities) from hanging their laundry out to dry.  States (including neighboring Oregon) are now moving to pass laws in order to protect peoples’ right to hang out laundry, overcoming these private community rules.

People not only don’t want to look at old houses; they also don’t want to have to see their neighbors’ underwear.  It reminds them that their neighbors wear underwear, I guess; perhaps reminds them that they themselves wear underwear.  Or that there is something under the underwear, although there is certainly enough evidence of underwear in our daily lives given dress standards that you’d think we were passionately interested in looking at underwear, our own and others.

Yesterday, I was at the International Market here in Point Roberts when I could not miss a young man (maybe 20) walking ahead of me into the grocery store with the peculiar low-slung pants that one sees frequently on young men.  His, however, had passed all bounds of reason such that he was required to wear a belt to keep them on.  But, strangely, the belt—and his pants—were draped?  Had fallen? entirely below his underwear on the back side and then reached up higher on the front where presumably a nail kept it attached to his abdomen.  In any case, it was all underwear from my perspective.

I think, all things considered, I’d rather see it on clotheslines than in the grocery store.  But in a time when there’s a lot of serious concerns in the states, I am absolutely stunned to find that legislators must use five minutes of their time to protect our right to hang out laundry.  On the other hand, I’m so grateful to have such rights that, even though I have no laundry at the minute, I think I’ll wash some and go hang it on my clothesline in order to celebrate my rights.  Or something.