When I was 18 I worked at Sirloin Stockade in Independence, Kansas. I was a line cook responsible for tasks like dumping loads of chicken in the fryer for all-you-can-eat-chicken Sundays, calling out orders to the "broiler", preparing plates, making salads, and filtering the grease from the fryers at the end of the day. In addition, all of the cooks were very much concerned with keeping the restaurant well supplied with baked potatoes; because if we didn't, our manager Marty, who was pushing 6'5" and 300 pounds, would come storming into the kitchen all red faced and blustery screaming that a steak house NEVER runs out of baked potatoes. NEVER!
However unwarranted this long intro might be, I think it does a fair job of representing my feelings on this subject:
I civilized human being NEVER runs out of clean underwear. NEVER!
There are no excuses good enough to cool my indignation. The reasons for why this morning I had to pick what I thought to be the cleanest pair of underwear among those I've already worn are virtually inconceivable. Even now, I'm wearing no underwear at all. I admit it. I am guilty of either not doing my laundry enough or not buying enough underwear in the first place. Either way, I'm guilty. I deserve to be reprimanded severly. (And I call myself a modern man)

That said, my day was pretty nice. Work wasn't much. There was some retrieving bikes here, stocking things there, smiling at people-you know, the usual stuff. Fern and I were going to see a movie tonight but thought better of it. Instead, we did our own things, exercise-wise. I jumped on my mountain bike as soon as I got home and headed out to seize as much daylight as I could before I was forced to turn on my lights. I wanted to work on my overall biking fitness-increase power, improve cardio-so I rode up 8th street pushing a moderate to hard gear, maintaining a sustainable tempo. After about 7 miles or so, my toes had become pretty numb, and my fingertips weren't much better. So I headed back down in the dark, using the meager light from my handlebar mounted LEDs to warn me of the mountain bike-swallowing ruts that crossed my path. On the way, I navigated Trail Four to Freeway and down to Reserve. At home I consumed a plate of seasoned pasta for the third night in a row. Then I rode to the M and chatted with Fern for a while. We covered many topics, one being the pros and cons of breast milk. Now I'm home and am ready for bed.