Wednesday, February 23, 2011

How to avoid nurturing a Prude (unless you really want one)

Little Prude, in the carefree pre-Freckles song days

How, you may wonder, does a Prude become a Prude?
Is it nature? Or nurture?
Or panicked brain cells gone awry?

In Your Prude’s case it is a combination or all of the above.
The Prude’s parents raised her on a regular diet of Euphemisms (see ‘The Beauty of Euphemisms’ from sometime last fall) and utter disregard of the more indelicate aspects of physiological functions.

For example, when someone, say, partook of too many beans and felt a build-up of internal combustion that couldn’t be contained before one made a rush to the restroom, the Prude has no memory of anyone saying ‘excuse me’
Why? Because the family ignored the event as though it hadn’t happen.
We would just hold our corporate breaths till we turned delicately blue and hoped any lingering aroma would have dissipated.

The above indicates that The Prude was nurtured into her current condition.
HOWEVER, the nature side manifested itself early.
The Prude’s young brain, with its delicate sensibilities, was at the crucial stage of development where any misguided word or image or phrase could send  fledging Prude cells into full-grown flight.

At this pivotal moment of brain blossoming, the Prude sprouted Freckles.
They erupted across her cheeks and nose and for some reason inspired the Prude’s Mother to sing the following chorus:
 ‘She has freckles on her But! she is nice, she is nice’

The Prude was horrified.
What was her mother doing? And why?
And would she sing the song in public?
When other people saw The Prude’s freckles, would they belt out the chorus?
Also in public?

The Prudish brain cells experienced unprecedented expansion. They leapt from the Nest of Toleration and have spent the decades since flitting frantically in The Prude’s brain to avoid sight or sound of the above–mentioned indelicacies of life.

Parents of Potential Prudes, or even potential parents of PP’s, let this be a warning.
Choose your songs carefully.
Guard your freckled children.
Unless of course you want to raise a Prude.
In that case This Prude will send you the rest of the words to The Song.

1 comment:

Robin J. Steinweg said...

Horrors! In my day it was my sister singing "She's got pimples on her But! She is nice."

Had it been my mother, I might never have recovered. As it was, Sis waited until I hit puberty, a particulary painful time to cut loose with such a tune.

My sympathies are with you, friend Prude.