You showered earlier this morning. It went especially well this time, and you're proud of yourself–your nether zone was exhaustively cleaned and you even remembered to scrub behind your ears. Sparkling!
Then after the satisfaction of a ripping good wash, you stepped out to towel dry and put on your–Heaven forbid–white underwear. (I'm already ruling you a glutton for utter humiliation.) Still–because you're just so clean–you're under the mistaken impression you'll somehow do the impossible: You're gonna go the entire day–morning, noon and night–maintaining the angelic perfection of your gleaming undies in a record-breaking, bravura performance of gold-plated tidy-whitey stewardship.
You're the most naïve person in the world.
But breakfast went great, and after all that coffee on the way to work, you were especially careful in relieving yourself with expert precision. You shook 1, 2, 3 times–even though to some that borders on "playing with it"–and although it's pretty gross, you did a dribble wipe with your hand, because despite the dirtiness of a safety move like that, your wild-eyed pipe dream remains: Never unfair the 'wear.
Well, you got away with it that time, but now it's after lunch, and then you feel it–that familiar peristaltic twinge: It's time to go.
This is the moment of judgment. You've deferred it long enough. God only knows if you can make it past this–your greatest challenge of the day. So you excuse yourself from your co-workers and reluctantly head for the bathroom. "I can still do it," you mutter to yourself, "it really is possible–so long as I wipe... thoroughly and completely."
You labor each pass: "For this to work" you think, "all it takes is a little consideration. I mean, skid marks come from carelessness!" Plus, you're not like other people. They're sloppy and disgusting–nothing like you! How could this go wrong?
Ah! And now for the last wipe. Pristine! It's fail-safe: After lavishing your bum with the umpteenth tissue (and a bonus after that one)–fully guaranteeing post-fecal purity–you flush and happily lift up that glowing white cotton you've preciously guarded all day. "I made it," you think. "I really, honestly made it."
Then, just when you thought the worst was behind you, you get stuck in traffic on the way home. And it's hot. And you're sweating. But you think, "I wiped like a pro today. Clean is clean. I mean, a little perspiration won't change anything."
But you're worried anyway, so you rush home and check.
It's like a bomb went off. You feel like you're 6 again. "How?!" you say–"I was so clean!"
Sure you were, my friend–sure you were. But aside from committing to a series of rigorous bidet sessions throughout the day, none of us–and I mean none of us–can live up to the impossible, humiliating ideal that is white underwear.
And that's why gray's here to stay, people.