Slacking off

Inside the mind of a pants-loser

by Nina Willdorf

Guys, take note: it’s easier than you think to get into a girl’s pants. You’ll find them lying just inside the door.

Me, I’m a pants-loser. Within minutes of walking into my house, I have only one thing on my mind: when in God’s name can I take my pants off? I can throw on another pair, I could go without, it doesn’t matter what happens next. The things just need to come off.

“My pants are half off before I even cross the threshold,” admits my friend Rachel, in New York. We giggle. Of course it’s absurd. But there’s logic to the actions of a pants-loser — logic shared with (shudder) one’s mom.

My last roommate, Lisa, and I had this revelation. Both of our moms had the same post-work routine. Come home at six, seven, whenever, and begin:

Step 1) uncork a bottle of chardonnay on kitchen counter.

Step 2) walk directly upstairs, take off pants or skirt (whatever — it doesn’t matter, as long as you’re taking it off).

Step 3) go back downstairs, pour glass of chardonnay, and proceed to pay bills, return phone calls, etc.

Lisa and I joked about it, even created an unofficial house ban on chardonnay. And we swore to ourselves that we would keep our pants on, at least until a reasonable hour. The chardonnay we did without, much as we might have craved it, for an entire year. As for the pants-dropping dictum, well, that lasted about a week.

So what, exactly, is behind this compulsion to drop my pants? It’s not that I wear particularly uncomfortable clothes. Aside from some workout gear, I don’t own any spandex. I regularly purge my closet of anything that’s too small, too tight, too anxiety-producing. Sure, there are those days when my “good” pants feel not-so-good. But being bound by a waistline isn’t really the issue here.

Really, pants-shedding is more of a psychological thing. Rachel doesn’t have to dress up for work, but she’s just as eager to lose her pants at the end of the day. Lisa and I met at a bar the other night. She was wearing jeans and a yellow polo shirt. “It’s so true,” she said, laughing. “I was wearing this at work today. I came home, took these off, put on some boxers, and put them back on again when I came to meet you.”

That’s because the pants you wear coming in the door — whether they’re fancy or casual — are work. They’re outside. They’re not curl-up-on-the-couch. They’re definitely not return phone calls, make dinner, and read.

For us pants-losers, there’s a tried and true Pants Progression. Usually, right after dropping my pants, I go for an intermediary pair, one to fill the slot between work and going out. Those are usually pajama bottoms — place-holders between work pants and play pants. Let’s call them leisure pants. I have a few pairs of those — they’re exceptionally comfortable, elastic-waist, breathe-easy closet items.

If I end up going out, there’s a switch to the play pants. But here’s the rub: though I’m compulsive about taking off my pants when I come home from work, once I’ve made the transition to leisure pants, it becomes that much more difficult to take the leap to play; the process that produced such a gratifying ahh now prompts a begrudging oy. In fact, leisure pants are almost a trap. I’ve been known to use them as an excuse: “Oh, go out? Um, well, I’d love to, but, see, I’m already in my pajamas.” It’s sort of the limp, clothing-excuse equivalent to the “I’m washing my hair” plea — especially when you say it at 6 p.m.

When it comes right down to it, all pants have a place and a time. Just as I feel compelled to drop my pants upon arriving home, I would feel vaguely dirty going out in my leisure pants, or wearing nighttime play pants around the house. After getting home the other day, I did just that: I wandered into the kitchen in my work pants. I remember hearing “Fancy!” as I scurried off to change.

üast week, my roommate Bess was in her leisure pants — a/k/a her pajama bottoms — making some dinner. “I need to run out to the store to pick up some lemons,” she announced. “I’m just gonna go like this. That’s okay, right?” I nodded — failing, I think, to conceal my horror. Those are leisure pants, I balked. The baggers will freak.

I violated the code myself once last summer, when I ducked across the street to Store 24 in pajamas and a sweatshirt. Before leaving the house, it felt like a “whatever” thing to do. But it came off more as “whoops.”

But there are some who seem to delight in going against the pants code, like college students in the middle of finals — rushing in to exams in perfectly disheveled ponytails and pajama bottoms. I just couldn’t tear myself away from the books to throw on real pants, the look says. I am going crazy with studying. It always seemed so thinly veiled, as if dressing down were proof of academic devotion. In my experience, there’s always a spare moment to make the Pants Transition.

I was talking with some guys about this, and they eagerly shared their own stories about pants-dropping: sitting in front of the fan, the computer, the TV, chilling. But there’s a difference between their exuberant pants-dropping and mine: while theirs seems a practical means of cooling off thermodynamically, mine is more about cooling out psychologically. It provides a buffer between day and night, home and away.

After growing up in a pants-loser’s home, I tried to make it my personal goal to keep my pants on. But like nervous habits, like allergies, like my skin color — the pants-loser thing is just part of being me.

You just can’t mess with jeanetics.

You can guess what Nina Willdorf is wearing at nwilldorf@phx.com.