I, sir (or madam, as the case may be), have run out of underwear. I am using my last clean pair as we speak, and I have been half-seriously contemplating the idea that, come tomorrow, I might just dig through my hamper and turn one of my briefs inside out. (Don’t worry. It was only half-seriously. Considerations of social etiquette and personal hygiene will undoubtedly win out.)

But it made me remember the time I crossed two-thirds of this country to come here to Illinois (exiled from my beloved sunny Southern California) and how I had forgotten to pack underwear for my three day sojourn, so every night I would have to use regular soap to wash my only pair of underwear in the motel’s sink, go to sleep commando, and hope that my boxers would be dry before I had to leave the next morning.