Episode 4: The one where I almost expose myself to the newsroom

Ah, summer time. Hot dogs, cold beer, women in short shorts and tank tops. What's not to love? If you are a 200 lb man with a sweat problem like me, the answer to that question would be... scorching heat.

I actually like summer and I enjoy the heat as long as I have relief (Popsicles, swimming pools, window fans etc...) readily available. It is also important for me to dress appropriately in the summer time, that is, as close to naked as possible. Typically I need to wear loose fitting clothing, button down shirts or football jerseys (which are typically the cause of great ridicule) and, of course, no underwear.

Without getting too in to the gory details, underwear and hot weather do not exactly get along in my world. So, from about June to October it is a safe bet that if you see me there isn't more than one layer on me at any point. It is important to note that in no way is this part of any sort of kinky sexual desire to let the junk swing. It is just too damn hot to have a ball of cotton between your legs.

This problem is especially prevalent at work where I am required to wear at least business casual attire, which means no shorts. In the winter time I have no problem tossing on a shirt and tie, but when it is 90 degrees I once again have to take measures to prevent overheating.

Fast forward to yesterday when, as I have countless times this summer, I woke up to a ray of hot sun on my face and put on my loose-fitting, short sleeve button down shirt and my favorite pair of baggy, loose cargo pants. And nothing else.

These cargo pants are probably the most useful pants you could wear in the summer. Light and breathable, they are loose enough where I don't have to worry about the oven effect, and they occasionally provide for some ventilation if you catch a breeze in the right pocket.

I have had this particular pair of pants for several years now, and they are, admittedly, a little worn down in some areas. One of these areas, I found out, is the crotch.

I found this out rather abruptly yesterday as I was in the newsroom bathroom. Now, I knew that there was a small area on the lower crease of the zipper that was beginning to separate from the pants, but by no means could it be considered a hole, and by no means was it noticeable to anyone, so I thought I was in the clear.

I went to the bathroom and was washing my hands when I realized that, as is almost always the case, Johnny had cleaned the bathroom, but failed to replace any of the toilet paper or paper towels.

With hands still wet I located the paper towels on top of a small shelf in the corner of the former storage closet-turned bathroom. Apparently, as I reached over to grab the roll of towels, the small separation in the seam of my zipper caught the end of the shelf, or perhaps some sort of screw.

Needless to say, the hole went from a small separation to a full out rip, all the way up the side of the crease to the top of the pants. At risk of being too graphic, my balls were hanging out. I am being paid back for my no underwear cockiness. My worst fears have been realized.

One of the things I would like to teach my daughter is that in times of crisis it is important not to panic. So, I took my own advice and started looking around for resourceful tools that I could use to repair the pants.

I found paper towels, soap, two dusty neck ties and a nickel. I am not Macguiver but I had to make it work. I took a long piece of the brown, industrial strength paper towels and stuffed them inside the pants, lining the hole in an attempt to at least shield my balls. Luckily, the shirt I was wearing was long enough to cover the top of the hole. A good temporary fix, but I needed a new pair of pants. Stat.

My first thought was to drive home, but in the afternoon, knowing I had to leave by 4 to get to my other job, I didn't have time to go and come back, so I decided to go to Target and see if I could replace the pants.

I slipped out of the bathroom and hustled through the advertising department, making eye contact with no one and slouching over so no one could see the front of my pants. I slipped out the back door, avoided Johnny and got in the car.

Now, I knew exposing myself at work was one thing, but exposing myself in Target is even worse, so I started to look around the car for a solution. A quick survey turned up an apron from waiting tables, two paper clips, and more neck ties.

I can't imagine what people thought when I walked in to Target wearing a dirty, black waiter apron over a pair of cargo pants and partially covered by a striped button down shirt, but whatever they were thinking wasn't as bad as them seeing my balls.

With apron on I found and purchased a brown pair of Wrangler cargo pants, broke the “no merchandise in the bathroom rule” and put them on. No one ever saw my balls. Success!

Did I learn a lesson from this experience? Not really. But at least I know my new cargo pants won't wear out until at least next summer.