It’s dark when I get up in the morning. Out of deference to my slumbering wife, I only turn on a single 25-watt lamp, so as minimize her perturbation when I finally manage to fall out of bed. I get dressed in this half-light, then shamble out the door to inflict my vile presence on the rest of the world.

Yesterday morning my underwear drawer was empty, but fortunately a few loads of laundry had been done the day before, and my unmentionables were merely waiting to be put away. Running late, I quickly fished a pair out of one of the clean baskets and hurled myself out the door.

As I barrelled down the freeway, I became slowly aware of a strange sensation in my pants. No, not that one. A velvety sort of feeling, as if I was wearing silk or rayon on my naughty bits. Since I was late, I really had no time to ponder or investigate the matter until I was able to take a break from my phone shift a few hours later.

At this point, I was feeling more than silky. Lubricated, almost. It felt like my shorts were full of talc. I slithered into the bathroom and sat down in an empty stall to drop my drawers. As the denim slid down my legs, I looked at my underpants under the harsh, unforgiving, industrial flourescent light; barely stifling a gasp of disgust, I gaped at the filthy garment that had until a moment ago had enshrouded my crotch.

Now, by filth, I’m not talking about some bleach-resistant reminder of fecal leakage. I’m quite continent, thank you very much. These were dingy and brown, mottled with dark stains of indeterminate origin, their wretchedness underscored by a narrow, jagged gash running down one side. The kind of squalid garment that one more commonly associates with abject penury and misery, conjuring up images of Dickensian paupers or African child soldiers. They were beyond shabby. They were shameful, resembling nothing so much as an oily rag.

Oily rag. Oh, shit.

Unable to contain myself as realization flooded in, I burst out laughing, to the likely wonder of the next stall’s occupant. I was, quite literally, wearing an oily rag. Along with the clothing, a load of rags had been put through the wash, one of which I was now chagrined to find around my legs. In my morning haze, I’d accidentally rummaged through the rag basket, selecting a discarded pair of boxer briefs whose previous use had been a sop and cleanup rag for a particularly messy oil change. That silky, lubricated feeling? 5W-30.

Now I know why my mechanic always has that contented smirk on his face.