In this one I lose my pants.

My love for all of you dear readers is well documented. Not only have you guys managed to handle my months and months of radio silence, but you came back to wish me bon voyage on the way to France. Wait a tic, you did not. NONE of you came. Why is that fair reader?

However, I forgive you. I cannot stay mad at you guys (this is owing to your incredible collective cuddliness).
Regular missives will now resume as I travel for the next two weeks covering south of France, Paris, London and then after a day or two off, Acton-Waterloo, Ontario.

The upcoming 24 hours will now be taken up by travelling across one continent to another over a giant pond, followed by travelling from England to France under another giant pond. But every journey starts at the same place. Currently, I am warming my posterior in a very cool terminal in Toronto Pearson Airport wishing for the moment when I will be allowed to take my pants off.



Allow me to explain, my lovely ring tailed lemurs. I find that it is important to look good right up to the moment you board a plane. However, once in the plane it might be advisable to switch into comfortable wear. As was documented during the Kwisatz-Haderach* wars, that any travel, will drop a person’s hawtness nee hotness at a proportional rate. A travel of 100 kms will lower a person’s hawtness by 1, so if you were a 10 to start off with, you are now effectively a 9. Since I am travelling a bajillion 6000 odd kilometres, I am running a serious dip in my hawtness scale. And even though I am worth a million goats, I cannot let this slide.

This is where the pants-less theory comes into effect (or is it affect… no, no. Definitely effect). Provided one is equipped with a plane which sustains human range temperatures, it is advisable to switch into wear that is crappy looking but oh-so comfortable. This allows one to sleep, read and avoid random spills of someone else’s coffee on the crotch better. This for me involves taking off my jeans, and switching into shorts. The same is also done to the shirt, which are then neatly taken care of and put away out of reach of wailing babies and wrinkles.  

If you follow this simple guide when you finally emerge from a long metal tube that has hurtled you through the skies at speeds only achieved by smearing canon balls with cheetah blood, you will look great and suffer no dip in hawt-itude.

See how I take care of you all.

Yours in Travel,
@damookman.

*Admit it. You googled Kwisatz Haderach didn’t you?