The convention of wearing pants, I've realized, is the deepest scourge in this painful existence. Seriously, correct me if I'm wrong on this; the worst part of any day is the moment you can't go another second without putting on those binding fetters of denim, khaki, or pink leather.
It's occurred to me that life seems to revolve around the goal of not having your pants on. I don't think that this applies only to me, so feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.
In the morning, we hit that snooze button to savour "just five more minutes, I swear" of bare-assed bliss.
During the entire day at work and school, we count the minutes until we can get home, and begin the long process that ultimately ends with our pants on the floor [or, if you're not a complete slob like I am, the laundry hamper].
During the soccer game, you fantasize about having the cojones to make a dash across that noble field and score the winning goal sans pants.
You go to the bar with the express purpose of finding someone to take your pants off for you. If you don't find that person, you do it yourself and get removed from the establishment. Fuck them if they can't take a joke.
The best part of your day may very well be that final return to nature, the moment you get into bed, unbound by the restraints of societal conventions and mores. To sleep perchance to dream? Not I. It's the thought of my soft linen sheets that really gets me relaxed after a long day.
In all seriousness, though. We take a lot of things far too seriously. I'm not saying that we should let paedophiles run amok in our playgorunds. Just that the absence of pants isn't always inherently sexual. I should be able to step onto my front porch in my boxers without cold stares from passers-by.
As a joke, I actually once wrote an exam in my bathrobe. It was -25 Celcius [convert it yourselves, you Imperial-system savages], and my balls were somewhere in my stomach by the end of the long walk to the lecture hall. It took me a while to lose the nickname of "housecoat man."
Against my better judgement, I brought that same bathrobe [I'm assuming the two words mean the same thing] along on the trip to Alabama. At the losing end of an unsavoury wager, I ended up wearing the bloody thing all the fucking way through Tennessee on the way home. And I was driving.
And driving, it seems, is yet another thing made better when you don't have pants on.