Hidey, the Pantsless Agoraphobe

Once one has been living in a place for a while, particularly if he has been doing it solo, one comes to the realization that trivial formalities such as pooping with the door closed and wearing pants all the time are a waste of his time.

Naturally, he will clothe the southern bits and close that door should guests be present, because he is not a total cretin, after all.

But if one's evening is quiet, and the only scheduled interaction with the population at large is hours away, off go the pants! Time to make coffee!

Which is what I was doing when the doorbell sounded.

I froze, jar of coffee beans hovering, tilted, above the mill.

"Are you wearing pants?" my brain asked. I checked. Oh, God no.

A single bean dropped from the lip of the jar. It bounced across the counter and onto the floor, where it was immediately snapped up by the ever-watchful cat.

"Don't panic. Let's think this through. Are there any pants nearby?"

There aren't. The closest pair I know of is down the hall in my bedroom. Unfeasible. I have to pass the front door with its giant window in order to get to them.

The doorbell rang again. It was then that I realized that the garage door was open, and the door leading from it into the house was unlocked. What if it was someone who felt they knew me well enough to enter without invite? They could just come in! They could just wander into the house and see me standing there, pantsless, clutching a jar of beans like some sort of pervert!

"Calm down. If they knew you well enough to just walk in, you wouldn't be so embarrassed if they saw your boxer shorts."

But these have a hole in them.

"Point taken. Look, what if you crawled past the front door? They'd have to be on tip-toe right up against the glass to see you then."

True, but what if it's one of those sticky little kids? The kind who come by with boxes of horrible waxy candy bars they're selling for eight bucks apiece so they can pay for a trip to some mosquitoey summer camp? Those little bastards are almost guaranteed to have their faces pressed right on your window, latched on with their very moistness like tree frogs. Damn them!

"Geez. You sure you should be making coffee now? You seem wound up pretty tight already."

I think I'm just going to hide.

"Just so long as you never tell your girlfriend. What kind of hamster will she think you are, hiding from fund-raising frog-kids? How sad."

If you won't tell, I won't tell. Let's just sort of crouch here in the corner next to the stove until they go away.

"Yes. Like some kind of primitive hominid, confronted with the glitter and hum of the modern kitchen! Oooooo! Beware the chrome-lined demon's grind-hole in the sink! It can destroy your body and eat your soul!"

Shut up. Besides, I think they're gone now. I'm not even crouching any more, see?

"You should probably put down that spatula. What were you going to do with it, anyway?"

Wield it.

"Drive away the intruders with your mighty spatula? This is almost good enough for a blog post. Why don't you just wear pants when you're at home during the day? Most normal people do."

Or I could turn into one of those belching old men who proudly answer the door in their underwear and scratch their naughty bits with the UPS man's stylus before they sign the magic clipboard.

"You could. Or, since you're not an old man yet, you could keep an emergency pair of pants in the cupboard. Wham! Problem solved! Good idea or what?"

You are my brain. It's your job. Good work. Have some caffeine.