2016: My Year Without Pants – Over Half A Year

Someone send me a cake, bring the balloons, and hire a DJ because I’m throwing myself a no pants party. Not a party in my pants, because there are no pants to party in, but a party with no pants.

Not like that time in college that some of my friends held a “Pants Off Dance Off” party for their joint birthday’s. Not like those awkward pick up lines designed to get drinks thrown in your face if you dare to use them on someone.

I’m talking about a celebration of the fact that I haven’t worn real pants in over 6 months.

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2016: My Year Without Pants – Moving

Well a whole hell of a lot has happened in the last month. Adina (my new roommate) and I started the epic search for an apartment in Los Angeles. We then (within 2 weeks) found an apartment. Put down the deposit. Signed the lease. Got the keys. Then started moving our lives in.

We have lived there just over a week, and are still cobbling together the place. We need some tables and another lamp. But, the main point of this post is to discuss how I’ve now gone almost half a year without wearing real pants.

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2016: My Year Without Pants – 1 Gallon A Day

This post combines two weird challenges I set for myself this year.

  1. Not wearing (real) pants for 366 days straight.
  2. Drinking a gallon of water a day.

The gallon challenge is very new. Two weeks old, in fact. I set it when I bought my giant Nalgene in Portland. It holds 32oz, which means to drink a gallon I have to drink 4 a day.


My giant Nalgene that I cart everywhere with me.

Now, under normal circumstances (read: every day of my life) my self control, and self discipline rank pretty low. I’m talking, go to the grocery store for clementines and return with clementines plus a frozen pizza, plus a family sized back of SmartFood Popcorn.* Then sitting on my couch and shamelessly eating all of the food.


A lot like this.

But I think I’ve found a loophole for my own lack of self discipline. Initially propose the idea as a joke, laugh about it with friends, then start to actually attempt said thing. Once I prove this is easier than originally thought, it just becomes part of my life.

You all watched me go through waves of stress with not wearing pants.** But now I’m over the hill, on the other side, singing the praises of saying “Fuck you!” to jeans. I don’t even think about wearing them anymore, and I don’t miss them.

The gallon challenge is still new, and (so far) proves a much easier task than avoiding zippers. I already drank a lot of water, it’s the only thing I drink aside from alcohol and the occasional ginger ale.

So far my skin looks a lot better, but otherwise I feel basically the same. Next week I’ll start adding fruit to my water every day and see where that road leads. Hopefully to more energy and slight weight loss.

*these two foods are my ultimate weaknesses. Plus wine.

** Those dreams were really awful, guys!

2016: My Year Without Pants – War on Pants

Guys, I’m going to be honest with you, three months without pants is incredibly difficult. I crave owning a pair of pant-like things that I can wear more than once, maybe twice if I’m lucky. In other news my friend berated me for my “war on pants” at a party last weekend. Looking at you Seamus.

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2016: My Year Without Pants – I hate everyone (and pants)

So I’m here today to talk about a very important matter afflicting 100% of my life. The fact that I hate everyone (and pants) and now I have a shirt to tell the world about that.

Saying I hate everyone does not mean that I hate you, friends and family reading this blog. I don’t even hate most  all of the people I’ve met in life. What I mean is I hate people in a very broad sense.

For example, people are the reason KFC made a sandwich where two fried chicken breasts made up the bread and the inside was melted cheese-food-product and some sad bacon. Without chicken as the bread that’s a really shitty sandwich, just saying. People as a collective are terrible, and afflict this country and the world with some wicked terrible shit.

But on a personal level, people get in my way every single day of my life (as I’m sure they get in your way). When I’m driving, when I’m walking, when I’m just trying to redeem my free Chipotle burrito.

More recently the reason I hate everyone (and pants) and want to declare it via this Hot Topic t-shirt, is because of catcallers. I noticed a spike in the amount I get catcalled after starting this pants-less quest almost two months ago.

Two weeks ago, while walking down a not as heavily populated side street in Hollywood to drop off a book at a library, two adult babies catcalled me.

I just wanted to drop off my library book, walk back to the movie theater, and wait for my friends so we could get dinner and see Deadpool*. But no. Instead these garbage humans decided they wanted to, what? To get my number? To hook up with me? To feel somehow superior to me? Honestly, what is the goal of catcalling?

They didn’t even do it well, I walked by in my red-plaid leggings, Deadpool t-shirt, and black jacket and one of them shouted “DAMN, BITCH!”

And like, I’m expected to swoon? I don’t think so.

Less than a week later I was catcalled while walking down a main street, at 2:30 p.m.on a Wednesday. I wore a t-shirt and short-ish skirt and carried a very large bag of groceries. Two men in a U-Haul leaned out the window to shout at me.

Admittedly, I didn’t hear what they said at first because I had my headphones on. But after a minute I could make out them telling me to “Smile more, you’d be so pretty!” Instead I gave them a really unpleasant glare and kept walking back to work.

Before these back to back instances of culture, society, and genetics failing me I could only recall being catcalled in Los Angeles once. While waiting to cross the street a year and a half ago some dude leaned out of a car turning the corner and yelled his phone number at me and told me to call him**.

When I wore jeans and grubby t-shirts every day no one catcalled me. But the minute I wear short skirts and skin tight leggings the garbage men of Los Angeles seem to take notice.

So yesterday I stomped around the greater West Hollywood area and proudly wore this t-shirt (and Nightmare Before Christmas leggings). I hate everyone (and pants). No one catcalled me, though I did get a nice compliment from one of our podcast guests saying she too hates everyone and loves my boldness.

I will take that over some douche bag shouting at me from a moving vehicle any day of the week. Let’s hope more people compliment my style (instead of yelling vague attempts at compliments [?] at me) as the year without pants goes on.

*Which we did and it was awesome and also my first and only sighting of Gene Simmons, his wife Shannon Tweed, and their son Nick Simmons (who I may or may not be low key in love with)

**I wish I wrote down that phone number, there are so many wonderfully fun memes I could send him with no context.