"You have to be pretty drunk to lose a shoe."

I really need to go to a tropical island,

OR

I am a complete exhibitionist.

I don’t like wearing clothes in the summer. Which is not the same as being comfortable naked – I wouldn’t say that I am. I balked at a boy’s suggestion that I should become a stripper a few weeks ago – I have flaws. Dubiously, he gave me the once over and begged explanation. “I’m not going to point them out to you – then you’ll see them,” I replied. I’m no fool. (Don’t respond to that)

I went to the Oregon coast with a group of friends this weekend. Despite a near cloudless sky, the temperature on the beach (factoring in a nice old-fashioned Oregon wind-chill) was probably in the 50s. Determined to wear my bikini top, I soldiered on until my friend Sharin actually told me to put my shirt on. Reluctantly, I obeyed.

It’s a little embarrassing when your friends tell you to put your clothes on. I wasn’t even drunk (yet).

All of this could account for my knack at losing articles of clothing as well. Or my early-onset dementia (my father would attribute this to soy products. Thanks for raining on my tofu parade).

It started at the top - two gray, zip-up sweater hoodies, one lost to the streets of LA after a Rasputina concert at the El Rey, the other to a house party in NW Portland. Then, a bra to the insanity that is New York (there’s a longer story here, but I’ll save that for later. Hi mom!) It continued downward: underwear to the Bermuda triangle of exboyfriend’s unkempt bedrooms, socks kicked off in a foreign bed. Two weeks ago, I attended my 10-year high school reunion. Having misplaced both my expensive pair of four-inch stilettos and my cheap pair of back-up flats, I returned home at 9am barefoot and thoroughly amused.

To my credit, I have never lost a pair of pants.