Underpants On The Outside

When I was a kid, one of my favorite books was Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. For those of you who haven’t read it, don’t be put off by the abstract title; see, it’s about a kid named Alexander who has a really shitty day (you can read the full text of it here.)

As I looked it up for this post, I was surprised because I never before realized how much of his bad day is his own fault. For instance, he wakes up with gum in his hair, but that’s the reason you don’t go to sleep chewing gum. Of all the consequences of going to sleep with gum in your mouth, it’s actually one of the more benign, unlike, say, choking to death. Later he’s upset because his mom didn’t put a dessert in his lunch. Then he’s pissy because he goes to the dentist and they find a cavity, which is pretty understandable given the kid sleeps with gum in his mouth and pouts whenever he doesn’t get his noontime cupcake. It also suggests his mom didn’t “forget” to pack him a dessert, but instead was looking out for his oral hygiene.

Since it’s a kid’s book, you might assume that at the last minute, something really good happens to Alexander, serving as a reminder that everything works out in the end. NOPE. He has a crummy morning, a rotten afternoon, and a shitty night, and before he goes to bed, his mom tells him (and similarly the reader) “That shit HAPPENS. Deal with it, you fucking baby, and be glad you’re not an orphan starving in Ethiopia.” (I’m paraphrasing.)

I was reminded of the book in particular Monday.

First I dropped my pen on my shirt. See, I chew on pens to keep from biting my nails, which I do because I live with a constant level of anxiety that just might be related to years of reading a book where nothing good happens and there’s no reason to believe that anything good will ever happen again. Regardless of the reasons why, (you’ll be hearing from my lawyers, Mom and Dad!) I’ve chewed pens for years, yet I still haven’t learned to take the pen out of my mouth before talking. As a result, half of my dress shirts have a stripe of ink at the point where my stomach juts out far enough for the pen to bounce off. I call it the Belly Demarcation Line, or the Meridian of Fatness.

What’s worse, I was wearing one of my nicer work shirts at the time, in that it had the least wrinkles, and until Monday, no ink stains.

Two hours later I dropped Teriyaki Chicken on my pants. These are made of a “stain resistant” material, though now that I’ve put them to the test I’d say they’re as resistant as a pair of “sex resistant” crotch-less panties. Then I discovered that in my athletic, ninja-like (read: flailing, squawking) attempt to catch the chicken I managed to somehow run my sleeve over the rest of my chicken. It was 1:30 in the afternoon. Fuckin’ terrific.

This is why I don’t like eating. Well, not with clothes on, anyway.

Many years ago, at the tail end of high school, I lived with my dad. We were both bachelors, living a lifestyle that some people might call “fuckin’ disgusting.”  One day there were leftover ribs in the fridge. Bonus! …except I looked down and noticed I was wearing lightly-colored khakis and one of my favorite white t-shirts. This was a problem. If I ate the ribs in my usual manner (standing in front of an open refrigerator) I had ruined clothes in my immediate future and likely some mopping as well.  If I were to go change into darker clothing, well, that was time I wasn’t spending eating ribs.

It was what Mexican people might call a “standoff”. Luckily, I think outside the box: I walked to the bathroom, stripped naked, and ate in the tub.

This story has always bothered some people, particularly people who I eat ribs with. But I say that until you’ve tried it you will never understand the uninhibited ecstasy of eating ribs naked in an unstainable environment*. It’s spectacular. So much for daintily holding the rib with three fingers; I grabbed that son of a bitch like we were about to arm wrestle. Fifteen minutes later I was full of pork and bliss.  Somehow I’d managed to get barbeque sauce in my hair, but what did it matter?  I just leaned over and turned on the shower.

I couldn’t help but be reminded of that experience on Monday. I wish that we always ate naked; I believe that anytime you can experience childlike joy and simultaneously save on dry cleaning, you do it. Unfortunately, large parts of our society have yet to shrug off their outdated, puritanical taboos. Even more unfortunate, these same people work in my office’s janitorial staff and human resources department.

I know that some of my co-workers read the Underpants from time to time. I only hope that the next time they see me crouching in the bathroom sink, naked and holding a meatball sandwich, they’ll reconsider letting me work from home.

*This method also works with pomegranate.