When I was in college there was an ad for Tide or some other laundry soap. A shapely and comely lass walks into a laundry mat and proceeds to strip down to her skanties and then some eventuallly holding onto a modicum of dignity by way of a strategically placed New York Times.

After this commercial aired, several of the gentlemen living in my dorm made a habit of haning out in the laundry room. Hopping against hope, I suppose, they'd catch a glimpse. Or something.

Anyway, this died out after a couple of weeks. Reality v. television, or so I thought.

Fast forward to last night. My black trousers were in dire need of cleaning. Really, it was getting gross. My general laziness combined with my rather busy schedule left little time to get to the cleaners. Even if they are directly accross the street from my apt. I can't explain what came over or why it seemed like a good idea, but I walked straight home last night and, instead of crossing into my apt building, I strode into the cleaners and- TOOK OFF MY PANTS. Yes. I took my pants off, handed them to the girl behind the counter, picked up my ticket (no ticky, no panty). I wrapped my coat around myself and walked accross the street, up the stairs and into my apt.

What the hell is the matter with me?