I brought this on myself, I thought. I have just woken up in a mysterious bedroom I’ve never seen before, and I have no idea where my pants are. My shirt? I was still wearing that. But my dignity had been severed at my bellybutton and now I was lost in some unfamiliar space, suffering through my bachelorism. It was rather terrifying and I had the irrepressible urge to whimper as I pulled the covers tight up to my chin.

The wall to my right was a dreary blue, a colour that would do well in prison, I thought. And to my left it appeared as though a clothes bomb had exploded during the evening. Women’s items were strewn like shrapnel across the room. Clothes were everywhere, on every surface, every hook and chair. What am I doing here? I wondered. I recalled being pinned to a barstool the previous evening by an extraordinarily lap-friendly anonymous girl. We met by accident and then piled in a taxi and headed to her place, which must be this place, I thought. But where was she? And where were my pants?

As I lay there scared and alone, I began to spin stories about the girl. Maybe, I thought, she was a criminal with a bizarre penchant for men’s pants. She was, after all, quite committed to crushing my legs last night, invoking gravity on them until they fell asleep. Maybe she did it again while I was sleeping and when I couldn’t feel my legs anymore she stole my bottoms. I could see the headline: The Maiden of Men’s Pants Strikes Again! and then a photo of me pouting, naked on my lower half with my hands held up in a “How could this have happened to me?” kind of gesture. 

What if I never find my pants, I worried, would it really be that bad? No more concerns about matching my tops to my bottoms or finding the proper belt. Life for me could be all about shirts from now on—shirts I would never need to decide whether or not I wanted tucked in. That decision could be made for me now. Is it a jeans day or a dress-pants day? Who cares! Let’s just go. I started to like the idea, but then the creeping worry about where I would have to keep my car keys and wallet took over. And what about elevators? What if I got stuck at the very front of a group of people and the doors closed? Have you ever slammed your finger in a door?

And suddenly I was sitting up, visually scanning my surroundings. I peered into the foliage of a stranger’s bedroom hoping to see something I recognized, a single pair of pants poking out from behind a pair of booty-shorts or a bath towel. But from the bed I could see nothing. So I leapt from where I was and began thrashing about. I tossed whatever I didn’t need behind me. Plush pairs of slippers, tiny t-shirts, blue-jeans—they all became airborne as I mowed nakedly through the room hunting for my pants. If I can’t find my own I’ll just steal whatever fits, I decided. I lifted up jogging pants, thought about wearing skirts, wondered how far I could get wrapped in only a towel. It was an endless ocean of clothing. Six hundred shoes! Two thousand pairs of underwear!  I briefly considered each item before moving on. Then —I heard footsteps. Someone was coming in my direction! I quickly threw on what was in my hands and froze, unsure of my next move.

The door opened and for a second I thought she might not see me cowering behind it. She looked at the empty bed and the rearranged clothing matrix of her bedroom, and then swung around to see me standing there. She was holding my pants in her hands.

“I think these are yours,” she said. “I washed the wine out of them for you while you were sleeping.”

“Thanks,” I offered, trying to act casual by holding the doorknob.

She walked over and placed my pants on the bed, then turned to walk out. As she was leaving she stopped and looked at me, putting her hand to my cheek. “I’d stick with the pants, honey,” she said smiling. “Those tights you’ve got on are totally not your colour.”