How Do You Feel About Naked Sundays?

So here I am at work on a Saturday.

I forced myself out of the Boy's warm bed, disgraced myself and feminism for eternity by falling back asleep literally AT HIS FEET on the bed, schlepped my butt on the subway, came into the lobby, took a look at the security log, and realize... I'm the only person in the entire building today.

It started small. I kicked off my shoes under my desk, and walked to the printer without them, because, what the hell? Why not? When I got back to my cubicle (hawt), I undid the top button of my jeans. Who wouldn't? The ideas began to grow. I was giving serious, but ultimately futile, consideration to taking off my pants.

Before long, I found myself wandering up and down the (carpeted) hallway with my hair down and messy, my feet bare, the button AND fly of my pants undone, ostensibly 'checking that everything was fine' but in reality squinting at other peoples' family photos. It was like Tom Hanks' Castaway, corporate version, and I was very happy.

Until the moment I rounded a corner and walked straight into the mail room guy.

Still, the whole experience was liberating enough that I'm giving even more serious consideration to adding an item to the next staff meeting, which will read: 'We have casual Fridays, Open-Pant Saturdays... How do you feel about Naked Sundays?'


Clothes-optionally yours,
Jordan