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A friend of mine from college traveled abroad in our junior year, and came back to the states in love with a boy. She met a Scottish bloke over there who ended up being her person. She had to go halfway across the world to find him. They stayed together during our senior year, but ended things when the distance became too tough. After we graduated, however, she moved back to Scotland with no intention of getting back together. She was just in love with the country, at least that’s what she told us. Needless to say, they rekindled their romance and got married a year later. I had the privilege of being her bridesmaid for both her weddings, one on Long Island, the other in Edinburgh. And as far as I know, they’re still together, with at least two sons in their little family. I haven’t been in touch with her for years, but like I’ve said, she’s still my friend, and I’m still there if she calls needing the shirt off my back. I’d do that with anyone I once called friend. And as it turns out, with the right timing, I might be giving you my pants as well.

I’m a gentleman.

About halfway through our senior year, my friend had stopped wearing pants. Not like I’d catch her around the house just in underwear (though it happened once or twice), but casually I’d only see her in a denim skirt with black calf-high leggings. She even told us, “I hate wearing pants these days.” I never really got it. I needed my pants. I wore a fair amount of dresses, but I’d get a terrible rash from my thighs scraping together, and I never did anything to maintain it. I just let my inner thighs look like Swedish fish instead of putting on spandex to give me some relief. In my down time, I’d opt for yoga pants or shorts around the house, and maybe jeans when we’d go out. And that was my clothing routine up until this year. Because now, I divest a very different tune when I’m all alone and have doffed the rest of the world.

From the time I get home until I go to sleep that night, I’m pantsless. I get home, take my work clothes off, and then it’s just me and my skivvies until further notice. I cook pantsless, clean pantsless, wash dishes, exercise, vacuum, work, sing, all without pants on. I only recently noticed I was doing it, and not just because it’s summer. I simply do not see the need for pants anymore when I’m in my own environment. No one is coming in, and I rarely go out, so I get to exist in peak comfortability. It’s even a pain to put something on just to take out the recycling. Some days, I’ve turned a loose tank top into a skirt, so there’s at least something is covering my ass when I’m in view of the hallway cameras. But when I’m inside, off it all comes again. Because pantsless has become my default position, even if it’s taken me longer to find it.

Pantsless party.

Of course, when I do need to go out, I always cover up. I can’t very well run to the grocery store without my pants. Can’t sit in the park or take a walk, either. I mean, technically I could. No one would stop me. I’m legally allowed to walk down the street topless in this city, so a little trouserless trek wouldn’t cause anyone to blink twice. But I reserve to hold all the vulnerability in the place I’m most comfortable in.

I’m really not trying to brag or put pictures in anyone’s heads here. There’s just something that has activated for me, and I think it was the same thing my friend once felt. There’s no need to be something I’m not when prying eyes cannot find me. I’m a creature who needs to be free, to be ready at anytime should the right person cross my threshold. There should be no expectations from anyone for me to be anything else, just as whatever you shed when you’re with yourself is something just for you.

Until things change, like the need for a corner bassinet, it’s simply my world, my needs, my dress code. I may not have everything necessary to get me exactly where I want to be, but there’s many layers one needs to shed before the real primal instinct takes over. Perhaps this is something that happens to every woman when she’s ready to transition into the next version of herself. Something has to put her in the mood to be who she is at her core. And I just might be as feral as the rest. Just some little guttersnipe living on Millionaire’s Row. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. No need to put on airs (or pants) when you’re in my domain. I’m just giving you a sample of what it’s like. I’d better make this the cutoff, though. Better to take things one leg at a time.


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