Today is national underwear day. I know this because, while crossing 43rd Street on Broadway, I was nearly mowed down by a 6-foot-tall Adonis wearing nothing but painted-on red briefs. In his wake came about a dozen other model types clad in all manner of colorful undies.
And there on the island where Broadway and Seventh Avenue converge were some lovely ladies sauntering down a raised runway in nifty bra and panty sets. I had to step carefully to avoid the puddles of drool from the phalanx of suit-clad businessmen on the sidewalk.
Okay. I know a lot of you out there deal with a lot worse on your commutes: two-hour traffic snarls, urine-scented subway stops, Lite FM. But come on. Between dropping the kid at daycare and hitting my desk, all I want is lack of complication. I want the bus to arrive on time, I want the driver to be sober, I want to walk quickly through Times Square without physically touching a sweaty tourist.
As annoyances go, I admit naked models in my path don’t rank that high. But it does annoy me that stunts like these are commercials masquerading as events. (This one is sponsored by a company called Freshpair. I refuse to link.) I mean, think about it: as a nation, why exactly do we need to dedicate a day to underwear? Is it a day to wear underwear, in which case one wonders if the rest of the nation goes commando the other 364 days? Is it a day to raise underwear awareness? More likely, considering its commercial roots, the sponsors hope it’s a day to buy underwear, and that we’ll take our cues from the fat-free freaks on the runway.
What I’m most annoyed about is that I’m wasting my precious few working brain cells thinking about this on a deadline day.