Today is the Day of the Dead. An important holiday for remembering and celebrating late loved ones through anecdotes and funny stories.

Which might not mean much to non-Mexican Norte Americanos, but it should. Because it’s an excuse to replay old memories like worn out records.

Well, as it happens I have one such story. It’s not humorous or anecdotal, mind you. But it is deeply traumatizing, and that’s almost the same thing.

I speak, of course, about the time when my late mother-in-law saw me naked.

I’ll pause here. Because I’m sorry if this is offensive. I consider myself a sincere gentleman. I mean it. I open doors for ladies, watch my language, and I never slouch. But the truth is—and I can hardly say it—my mother-in-law indeed saw me wearing nothing but the Joy of the Lord. And I mean the full biscuit.

Don’t make me repeat myself.

It happened years ago. And the violation occurred right in my own house. I’m forever traumatized. In fact, just writing about this causes unpleasant feelings to start swimming inside me, some of which date back to middle-school locker-room showers.

I can’t really explain how it happened. All I know is that one moment I’m waltzing across my empty house after a shower, enjoying the invigorating springtime air, then (WHAM!) a peeping Thomasina is standing in my kitchen.

“Mother Mary!” I squealed—but in a masculine tone. “How’d you get in here?”

“I have a key, ding-a-ling.”

“Please don’t use that word.”

She handed me a stack of envelopes, but did not turn away. Her demeanor could only be described as unimpressed. “I was bringing your mail.”

I felt my face get hot. “My eyes are up here.”

“It’s mostly just bills.”

“Miss Mary, I’m naked.”

She agreed with this.

Then without breaking her non-Methodist stare, she said, “Sorry, I didn’t bring any ones or fives with me.”

Without uttering another word I trotted to the bedroom and heard loud whistling and cheering behind me. I edged past her, one hand covering the stern of the ship, the other shielding the bow.

The thing is, I’ve never felt so violated. A man’s house is his sanctuary, his holy of holies. Mothers-in-law can’t just pop in for half-priced peepshows whenever the mood strikes. There are laws against this sort of thing in civilized countries.

Even after years went by, I still didn’t know how to act after my mother-in-law had seen the Authentic Me. Nothing was ever the same between us thereafter. I had a hard time looking her in the eye.

Take the holidays. Thanksgiving with the family was the worst. It was pure awkwardness. Especially when someone had to pray over the food, and say the reverent blessing with a straight face. It couldn’t be me. I couldn’t say grace while she was bouncing her eyebrows at me. I knew what she was visualizing.

And how about going to church? For years after the incident whenever our congregation would sing a hymn, Mary would slap my back pocket and say, “I got your Blessed Assurance right here.”

Isn’t it sad how something like an innocent pair of hindcheeks can rip a family apart with awkwardness? Which is why my advice to all sons-in-law reading this is, keep your family close and your skivvies closer.

Because I’ll never live down the traumatizing experience. And here on the Day of the Dead, a day for remembering loved ones, I still shudder to recall the horrific ordeal that “laid me bare,” so to speak.

After that day, I remember once asking Mother Mary what happened next for us. I wanted to know where two traumatized souls went from here?

Mary suggested we go for drinks and dinner.