Are the neighbors trying to tell me something?

I’ve let living on the UWS go to my head. Living downtown, one block away from the fashion mecca that is SoHo, there was pressure to look good. If I was going to the Korean deli on the corner, I put on my cute yoga pants with matching fitted t-shirt. Grocery shopping entailed putting a comb through my hair before I left the house.

However, moving up here, its just not the case. People routinely walk around in their dirty sweat pants, moms are pushing baby carriages with baby spit up on their shoulders, it’s like a small town nestled in the big bad city.

Now, I know how I’ve written on here how I am a jeans and t-shirt kinda gal, which is true to a certain extent. In reality, if it was up to me, I would forgo the jeans and t-shirts and spend my day in my bra and underwear. I look far better semi-naked than I ever look in clothes.

So with the relaxed unofficial dress code that embodies the Upper West Side, like most things, I try to see just how far I can take it. As I’ve taken up smoking again, and I refuse to walk a flight of stairs down to my bedroom to put on clothes to just walk outside for a quick ten minute cigarette, I’ve begun to push the limits of social acceptability—this includes me taking my cigarette breaks and running errands around the neighborhood in my booty shorts, tight stretchy tank top sans bra.

And on occasion I get the lecherous man leering at my half-naked body, but I would rather deal with that then have to run up and down the stairs to throw on a pair of pants to stand outside my door and smoke, you know?

However, this morning when I walked outside my apartment, I saw that someone left a pair of pants right at my doorstep.

Are the neighbors trying to tell me something? I mean, I think a note would have sufficed. Because at least I could have told them my size. But it was flattering to think that someone thought I was a size four.

And in other news, thanks for the Fleshbot link. Usually I call my mom all excited when I get linked by a major blog such as Gawker but, I think I am going to have to keep this one under wraps. I don’t think mom would appreciate that her daughter may have a career as an erotic novelist. It’s been hard enough to convince her that there is a market for my drunken exploits and rants.