By Sarah Pye
Living Editor
Every once in a while, I must shake my head and ask myself, “What is this world coming to?”
This always happens when Jennifer Lopez releases yet another movie. And yet I had a non-J Lo inspired moment of head shaking recently when something so utterly bizarre happened that it successfully gleaned yet a little more off the top of my flagging reservoir of faith in the human race.
By now you have no doubt detected what I’m referring to here. That’s right, folks, you guessed it: used underwear theft.
Now, in an abstract sense, used underwear theft is a highly disturbing concept. It means that we are dealing with an individual who is not only willing to handle someone else’s underwear, but is, in fact, so desperate to obtain it that he or she will risk possible jail time in its pursuit.
What might motivate such a person? It’s very hard to say. No doubt there is an endless number of characters currently wandering the streets who are capable of such a deed (Winona Ryder and Marv Albert come to mind).
However, today we are not dealing with used underwear theft in a purely abstract sense. Oh, no.
What we are talking about here is the theft of my personal underwear, a topic elevated to a whole new level of disturbing because it involves, well, me. Allow me to elaborate:
It was a Sunday afternoon like any other. I had decided that it would be a good day to do laundry, owning to the fact that my unlaundered clothing had completely taken over my half of the closet, Blob-like, and was threatening the health and safety of my roommate’s clean clothes.
Being a college student, I generally employ the time-tested sorting method of “cram as much as humanly possible into one washing machine because the laundry room is obviously under the control of some sort of organized crime family bent on exhorting upwards of $2.25 per load, in quarters, from the honest, hardworking apartment residents.”
So I condensed what I had originally intended to be seven loads of laundry into only three.
The result of this was that, by the time it got to the dryer, my clothes were not exactly separated by type. It was more like laundry gumbo: shirts mixed in with pants mixed in with pajamas mixed in with socks.
And all of this was mixed in with my underwear.
Now, I use the word “was” here in the sense of it “was” mixed in when it went into the dryer, although not so much when it came out.
For when I returned to the laundry room to retrieve my clothing, I noticed something rather curious: I no longer, technically, owned any underwear.
The interesting part here is that whoever committed this underwear banditry did not seem to take an interest in any of my many other lovely items of apparel.
Apparently, my other clothes were not good enough for this person. I had some expensive jeans in there, buddy: What, are you too good for them?
That this person actually took the time and trouble to fish through all of my clothing to remove only my underwear was rather offensive.
And so, being thus insulted, I fear that the only possible course of action will be to go door to door through my apartment complex, brandishing a stick of stain remover for my own protection, and demand to see the contents of everyone’s underwear drawer until I find the culprit.
Once found, boy will he or she be sorry. For, employing an “eye for an eye” system of vengeance, I will have no choice but to steal his or her underwear.
So if I’m spotted on campus wearing a large pair of plaid men’s Jockey shorts next week, know that justice was served.
Besides, I’ve got to wear something.
September 18, 2003