No-Panties Thursdays

No-Panties Thursdays. I can’t remember how old I was when I first learned of this “holiday.” Without a doubt, No-Panties Thursdays was the bawdy, raunchy sibling of its quietly suggestive Hump Day predecessor.

If you are from the Tampa area, you may remember No-Panties Thursday and it’s now-infamous advocate, Bubba the Love Sponge. This was back in the pre-PETA hullaballoo. In a time when Bubba was still a very large man making a very small request: go commando on Thursdays.

I believe his exact words were: “Where ever you be, let your chia run free.”

Ah Bubba, how I longed to heed your siren call. How I longed to be the kind of person who tossed my knickers to the wind and, literally, let it all hang out.

Alas, I was always more chicken shit that commando. I’d like to lie to you and tell you that it’s not because I’m afraid. Nope, the word I would prefer is that I am pragmatic. What if I was to go into politics? How would I defend participating in the sheer debauchery of No-Panties Thursday?

You should know, since we are becoming fast friends these days, that the “What if I was to go into politics?” question is one of my favorite covers for chicken-shit-ism. I used to use it all the time as my rationale for avoiding all sorts of wild and crazy things. Except when I was drinking. I saved, “What if there was a fire?” for those occasions. As in, I can’t get drunk; what if there was a fire?

I can assure you that I have been sober far more than I have not and never once have I been asked to be the leader of a fire rescue.

I can also assure you that there is less than a snowball’s chance in hell I will ever go into any form of politics beyond possible a homeowners’ association presidency – I’ve probably still got a shot at that one – and it has everything to do with what I believe and what I refuse to condemn and nothing to do with much else.

But you never know, right?

Of course I never, ever, ever participated in No-Panties Thursday festivities. Not even to this day. I’m a wild child in some ways, but there is no way in H-E-double hockey sticks that I could ever truly act on that secret wish to be completely unleashed. I was always (and remain) the girl who is simultaneously intrigued and terrified by all things hedonistic. If I had my way, I’d stand at the edge of that particular deep end wearing a life vest and clutching a rod iron fence.

So why on Earth am I babbling on about the “holiday: if there is no way in the world I’d actually “observe” it? Well, that’s the question isn’t it? The truth is that my resolve is cracking. I mean, let's face it, in the realm of possible walks on the wild side, Bubba’s request isn’t really that big of deal. Seriously, it’s not like I’m advocating base jumping for crying out loud. I mean, who would know? I could try it out, just a quick run up to the market or even – clutch the pearls – a full day trip into town.

I could totally get away with this and no one except my husband – who insists on random “quality checks” regarding my undergarments – would be the wiser. It’s unlikely that this little foray would make the news, just in case I end up having a personality transplant and wanting to go into politics.

After all, it’s not like I’d be drunk; if/when a random fire broke out, I could still be a responsible citizen (although I’d probably need to stay clear of climbing up the ladder).

Maybe that’s what Bubba, the unquestionably altruistic man that he was, really wanted for us all: he wanted us to find small, manageable ways to let go and do something uncharacteristic, uncomfortable, and, in the process, surprisingly liberating.

Well, it is Thursday people and I think you know what this means. I’m thinking that you and I owe it to ourselves to do something a little bit country and a whole lot rock-n-roll. Ask yourself: What Would Bubba Do?