How I Managed to be Trapped in Public Wearing Only My Underwear

If you’d told me last week that I’d be trapped in public wearing only a pair of Bonds jocks, I’d have laughed hysterically in your face… but that’s exactly what happened to me on Sunday. Yep, it sounds like the stuff of teen movies, but turns out it’s an actual possible event in real life too. Beware, and learn from my mistake!

On Sunday evening, I was supposed to be catching the Lostprophets gig in the city with my buddy Matt. To neatly avoid the cacophony of Grand Prix traffic near my house, I’d concluded it would be a great deal easier to cycle into the city, and park in the bike cage at work.

WHAT AN INCREDIBLE MISTAKE THAT ENDED UP BEING. You may think this is all a tall story, but I can assure you it’s the truth!

Now, I’m not the fittest bastard around, so tubby needed a shower after his cycle into the city, before he headed into the gig. My work building is part of a shopping complex, which has showers you can access with your security pass. Super handy! Off I trotted into the change rooms for my refreshing shower.

After stripping down to my underwear, I realised I’d forgotten to fetch my toiletry bag from my locker – which was located in a hallway outside the change rooms. What the hell, I thought to myself, it’s 6pm on a Sunday evening – there won’t be any other employees around. I chanced it, and quickly ducked out into the hallway in my undies with my locker key.

As the bathroom door clicked shut behind me, that’s when time shuddered to a stop and it hit me: I’d left my security pass inside the changeroom… and I needed it to get back in the changeroom.

Yes: I was trapped in a hallway wearing only my underwear. No wallet. No keys. No phone, let alone any phone numbers of my mates that I could remember. Ohhhhhh shit!

After a minute of stunned silence, it suddenly sank in: this was possibly the most ridiculous and embarrassing situation I’d ever been in. Like a lunatic, I burst into laughter: really, it was simply too funny.

I began running through my options. My first idea was to man up, defiantly walk into a nearby department store in my undies and buy some pants – but I didn’t have my wallet. Rule that idea out, then.

I was struggling to come up with any other ideas. That’s when the daunting truth slowly shadowed over me: the only way out of this situation was to jog 15 kilometres home – through the city and Grand Prix crowds – in my underwear. After five minutes of letting that sink in, I reached this strange and surreal level of confident acceptance. Suddenly, I was totally okay with the idea: it’d be the ballsiest thing I’d ever done, and what a hell of a story I’d have to tell. I’d probably have to hide at the beach near my place until my mate came home to let me inside, but… it was the only way out.

Then I remembered a potential safety line – as I’d cycled in to the building, I’d noticed the security guards’ break room in the car park. If I could creep down the fire escape, and was lucky enough to find a security guard there… I might just be lucky.

Feeling somewhat like a sweatier, less fit and incredibly naked secret agent, I strafed down the stairs terrified that I’d be mistaken for some peaky meth addict. Then came the tricky part: skilfully negotiating my way behind carpark poles and cars to avoid anyone else noticing me. It was like a game of laser tag where the penalty was actual police arrest rather than a losing score.

After making my way to the security guard room, I was overjoyed to find a portly fellow there. He didn’t seem so overjoyed to see a wide-eyed sweaty dude panting in his underwear gasping for help, but was surprisingly quite understanding, and agreed to let me back into the change rooms. He didn’t seem to find the situation hilarious so much as goddamn confusing.

The only problem was that the sadistic bastard wanted to take me back up to the showers IN THE PUBLIC ELEVATOR instead of the fire escape. “You want to get in, you’re coming with me,” he demanded. So I thought, bugger it – I’d already accepted that I might have to run home through the city, and this was hardly as bad. There were at least three or four immensely amused shoppers we passed by, and I acted as if it was simply something I did all the time. Hey guys, just hanging out here in a shopping centre carpark in my undies like I normally do, how’s it hangin’?

Blissfully, I was returned to the safety of the showers and vowed NEVER TO LET MY FUCKING SECURITY PASS OUT OF MY SIGHT EVER EVER EVER AGAIN. I attended the gig and a good night was had in the end (and boy, did I have a story to tell Matt when I finally caught up with him).

I’ve got to admit, about 20% of me wishes that I actually did have to run home through the city. It’d have been one hell of a story. But I’m so glad it happened – ever since Sunday I’ve had this strange new attitude. Every little stupid issue or worry I’ve had lately has completely paled in comparison, when you’ve realised that you could run through the city in your underwear if you really needed to. There’s a new, weird level of cool, nakidity-induced calmness I have… and I love it.

Hasn’t stopped workmates from nicknaming me The Streaker since they heard this story, though.