NTKOG #88: The kind of spontaneity-embracing girl who assaults public decency and public transportation mores by taking place in a group display of public pantslessness.
I am: modest; not prone to getting naked around strangers without at least a drink or two in my system. (This upcoming Thursday’s post notwithstanding).
I am not: actually wearing pants now either, since you mention it.
The Scene: Alewife T Station, around 12:40pm. No Pants Day is a national event spanning some 40 American cities, all of which featured pantsless Metro rides today; Boston’s chapter was organization by the Boston Society for Spontaneity who, it turns out, are Boston Sticklers For Punctuality. The Ex (he’s in town) and I, despite taking a cab to the Harvard Square Station in an effort to save time, missed the sign-up and registration tables.
“Damnit, we missed it,” we heard a girl hiss on the bus. “I’m wearing cute underwear for nothing! Are we just going to go home?!”
SUCCESS! Another group of girls wandered the platform dejectedly, wearing sweatpants and apparently not psyched about it; not far from them, a group of MIT boys wearing silly shirts and kneesocks, with not much in between. The Ex and I introduced ourselves and asked whether they’d like to join us and become a renegade group of no-pants. And, I mean, who could say no to an offer like that?
The first rule of No Pants Day, per its creators, is that you don’t talk about No Pants Day. You also don’t giggle, exchange significant glances, or pose for risque photos in the T you’re supposed to be pantskrieging. But apparently giggly girls didn’t get the memo, so we were less than subtle for the first few outbound stops on the Red Line train, and older folks looked at us with only wry amusement.
On the way to Park Street, though, the train filled up, and the new riders commented with some discomfort on the pantsless trend. As far as I could tell (though I was distracted, listening to music and playing Text Twist, a game so riveting that for twenty minutes I forgot I wasn’t wearing pants), reactions fell into three categories: 1) younger people who just didn’t even care about the massive pantslessness; 2) middle-aged men trying very, very hard not to look; 3) older people (especially women) who literally clutched their hearts and muttered about rapscallions.
Oh glory friggin’ be, guys, I am NOT EVEN EXAGGERATING about the last one! The Ex had the fortune of sitting next to a sixty-something woman on one train and according to all reports, she spent the entire ride glaring at his thigh, making sure not so much as a hair touched her stockings. Amazing. When I walked up and stood in front of The Ex, the lady stared at me and started muttering under her breath. Which might have something to do with the fact that, unlike the other girls on the train, it didn’t occur to me to wear boxers, so I looked like I was wearing a hot pink silk blouse, snow boots and a fedora. Period. Kind of yikes, right?
Other great pantsless occurrences: one of the giggly girls decided she was hungry, so we pantslessly stormed the Dunkin Donuts at Boylston, where a car ran a red light in the street while looking at us; I sat in a train next to a very old man who whapped my calf repeatedly with his cane to edge me away; we ended up meeting the whole group at the end, where a bunch of MIT boys took grave interest in The Ex’s London tube map boxers (how appropriate!) and Nexus One; afterwards, pantsless pub assault, where the hostess took a look at forty pantsless dudes flooding the bar, and asked only: “Shit, did you have a reservation that we lost?”
Amazing day — hard really to capture all of the magic. And so, let us put to the test that thing they say about words and pictures. you know, the one where math is involved.
I've never had a T rider voluntarily leave so much room between us. This lady was NOT AMUSED by my pantslessness.
Stormin' Dunkin Donuts like it was Versailles or something.
Pantslessness and cowboy boots! Now why didn't I think of that?! A slammin' combination.
We all felt very close to each other by the end of No Pants Day.
The Verdict: Goddamnit, guys, it’s going to be impossible to get me to keep my pants on after this. (Which if, if you’re counting, the third time I’ve disrobed on public transport for an NTKOG.) As The Ex and I were leaving the bar, I turned to him: “Wanna take our pants off again?” He thought about it for a few seconds and said, “It’s cold. Let’s do it on the way home.” Dudes. Dudes. I cannot take any responsibility for my further pantsless actions.
Also, A+++ for seeking out events with like-minded strangers (er, emphasis on strange) in this sometimes tight-laced city. I’ll definitely be checking out more Boston SOS activities. Even the ones that, lamely, do not require public nudity.
Not That Kind of Girl 