A modest case for the burka

In a recent post, I suggested that the best legs in the Church can be found on BYU campus. As it turns out, the true Mecca for leggy LDS loveliness may well be General Conference.

I attend Conference fairly regularly--and not, despite what you may, understandably, presume, because of the high concentration of quality calvage. Over time, I began to notice Temple Square and the Conference Center environs becoming increasingly bedecked in shorter and shorter hemlines, revealing firmer and firmer foundations of gastrocnemii. And, over time, I began to linger a little longer between and after sessions in order to take in the view.

Then last October, I realized that I had my camera with me, so I stole away from my party for a bit and took some stealth shots as I wandered about.

On the one hand, it was a rush of sorts: There was beauty all around, so why not make the moment last forever? No upsk!rts, no invasion of privacy issues...a tad creepy, yes, but nothing to fear by way of man's law. I even thought, "There's gotta be a coffee table book somewhere in here: Calves Across the Continents, and I'd travel all around the world, capturing candids of the best lower legs the fairer part of our race has to offer..."

On the other, it was, OK, more than a tad creepy. There was no question where God's Law stood on the matter, and I thought, "No man who I really respect would be doing this," which put a damper on my enthusiasm. In fact, I was ashamed. I should have deleted the pictures. I didn't. I tucked them away for six months, and have now posted them here -- not ashamed enough, evidently. (I'm sure that Church Security is already hacking Blogger for my IP address.)

As this Conference approached, I knew I'd be attending, and knew what ancillary opportunities that would bring. During the weeks between our anniversary dinner (see 3/22 "Meltdown" post) and Conference Weekend, my wife and I had a turnaround of sorts, a respite from the resentment, that continues today. So I was less inclined to repeat my Alan Funt impersonation at GC. Nevertheless, I struggled against its tractor beam, to such a degree that I even packed my camera along for the Sunday sessions.

But as things got underway that morning, I prayed a simple, silent prayer, that I'd be made to feel something, anything that would overpower my longing for legs, at least for that critical day -- that something would drive me to sequester myself between sessions, rather than go out on the plaza. I knew what was out there, and it wasn't the protesters I was worried about. It was the Nair infomercial.

That powerful override came at the end of Elder Holland's talk: "My other plea at Easter time is that these scenes of Christ’s lonely sacrifice, laced with moments of denial and abandonment and, at least once, outright betrayal, must never be reenacted by us."

I stayed inside.

Baby steps.

P.S. Last but not least, here's a thumbnail of perhaps the Holy Moliest of all of the shots, the full, original data file to which, perhaps appropriately, became corrupted.