Last night I had my first ever ‘pantless’ dream. Strange how I managed to go 32 years without experiencing this notorious neurotic nighttime specter, and it should manifest on Halloween night no less, when my slumber should have been interrupted by brain-hungry zombies, criminal clowns, unrelenting serial killers, and rogue Republicans, not by inexplicable public nudity.
I was in a posh bed and breakfast with a lavish brunch buffet. Streams of people were pouring in through the front door and into the dining room. I wore a sweater and my heavy raincoat, but I had believed that pants were optional. Or at least that what I rationalized as I paraded around the dining room, nude from the waist down, feeling incredibly self-conscious about any ripply subcutaneous tissue that may exist on my exposed buttocks (only in my dreams, of course.) I considered tying my jacket around my waist to hide my shame, but I was convinced that this would make me look even more ridiculous. No, I needed to find my pants.
And then my dream ended as they all do: I woke up. And indeed, my legs were bare, but my closet was simply brimming with pants. What a relief. The end.
