Remember the line from My Fair Lady? I'm a good girl, I am (uttered in the inimitable Cockney caterwaul of Audrey Hepburn). Well, that's me. Except once. The Ottawa high-rise where I lived so many years ago was a lovely sprawling building in an upscale parcel of the downtown core. My 7th floor apartment afforded me a lovely view and a long walk to the elevator. One night, after an amorous evening with my boyfriend, he dared me to run out and push the elevator button in the nude. I hesitated. As far as my neighbours knew, I was an upstanding, proper young woman who held doors for elderly ladies and promptly removed my laundry from the communal dryer. But somewhere deep inside me, a wild impulse was frog-kicking its way to the surface. I looked at my boyfriend with some trepidation. If I did what he dared me to do, would the door be unlocked on my return? He swore it would be. I ran like the wind (and, believe me, I felt the breeze), pushed the button and ran back. Whether any of my neighbours saw the streak of my pale flesh in the hallway that night, I'll never know. But the fact that my apartment door was unlocked when I got back is one reason that boyfriend is now my husband.