Behold, the Magical Boxers of Much Hilarity!

December 3, 2003

Behold, the Magical Boxers of Much Hilarity!

My wardrobe has been the center of attention over the past twenty-four hours or so.

Now, if you know me, then you’ll know how shocking out of character that is. I might as well have just said, ‘Ooh, yeah, I think I’d like a nice juicy tomato right about now‘, or ‘Hey, Microsoft isn’t all bad‘. Or even, ‘No, really, all I want for Christmas is a few McDonalds gift certificates for their scrumptious fish sandwiches. Oh, goody goody gumdrops!‘

Well, I’m not gonna say any of those things any time soon, let me assure you. (Gun-toting terrorist coercion or massive head trauma notwithstanding, of course.) Now, to be fair, I’d have said the same thing about the ‘wardrobe’ statement just a day or so ago, but alas, now I cannot. Decisions about clothes have occupied more of my time in the past day than they have in the past month or more.

You see, I normally care little about what I’m wearing. I see the old ‘clothes make the man‘ adage as poppycock bullshit dreamed up by some tailor to drum up business. Clothes don’t make the man — the man makes the man. And the woman makes the woman, and the man and woman together make sweet, sweet, sweaty snugglebunnies all night long. But that’s a story for another time — I’m talking about clothes here.

So, normally, I’d get up in the morning, take a shower, throw on some undies, a pair of socks (of the ‘tube’ variety, white and plain), a T-shirt, jeans, and a rugby. Period. That’s the routine. In summer, I forgo the socks, unless I’m wearing sneakers. But that’s the only deviation. It’s very Einsteinian, really. Or lazy.

(Yo, why it can’t be both? Don’t be buggin’, G.)

(By the way, I see from that last paragraph that I’ve been assimilated into the New England culture. Until I came here, I didn’t wear ‘sneakers‘. I wore ‘tennis shoes‘. Even for a few months here, that’s how it went. Until one day, I had this conversation with a coworker:

Me: Man, I really need to buy some more tennis shoes. These are getting pretty ratty.

Her: What? What did you just call them?

Me: Um, tennis shoes?

Her: ‘Tennis shoes‘? Why do you call them that? Are you going to play tennis in them?

Me: Well, no. I guess not. What do you call them?

Her: Uh, sneakers. Duh.

Me: Sneakers, eh?

Her: Yah. Sneakers.

Me: I see. So I suppose I’m supposed to go sneaking in them, is that it?

Her: Um… shut up. It’s not the same at all.

Me: What? Of course it’s the same. How is it different?

Her: …

Me: Well?

Her: Nobody likes you, ya know. Go hump a stapler or something, would you?

So, certainly, the chat ended badly. And I thought I held my own rather well. Still, some seed of that idea must have wormed it’s way into my brain, because I haven’t found myself talking about ‘tennis shoes’ ever since. And I have this weird perverted urge to dry-hump office gadgets. Weird — who was that woman, anyway?

Oh, and word to the wise, if you ever have the same affliction… um, avoid the hole-puncher. Trust me on this one, especially if you consider yourself a ‘bleeder’. Ouchie.)

Anyhoo — I don’t put a lot of thought into the old wardrobe. Sure, I have shirts that I like better than others, and pants that fit better than others, and socks that are longer or less long (known in some areas of the world as ‘shorter’), but such things barely raise a blip on the old Charliedar on a typical day. And that’s why today (and the tail end of yesterday) has not been a ‘typical day’. I’ve had no less than three clothes-related decisions to make. Three! And I thought you might like to read about them, so dammit — here they are:

1. Those Don’t Look Like Pajamas!

So, without sharing too much information — I hope; I wouldn’t want a big wall thrown up in my face here — I’ll tell you a little something about me in bed. Here’s what I usually wear to go nighty-night:

Boxers, pair of

That’s pretty much it. On a particularly chilly night, I might accessorize with a T-shirt. On rare occasions, I’ve even been known to leave on my socks, or to put on a pair of shorts, for some extra insulation around the nether region. (Nobody likes cold nethers, now, do they? Except maybe Kim Basinger in 9 1/2 Weeks — she seemed to be enjoying herself. But she wasn’t sleeping; so that’s different. Sexily, steamily, nipple-pokingly different. Moving on.) Anyway, that’s it. I don’t like to be too fettered while I’m getting in my forty winks, you see. Plus, I don’t mind being just a tad chilly; I’m more comfortable when I’m not too hot.

Now, that’s all well and good. That system has worked well for me for the first thirty-three and a half years of my life. But none of those years included a winter spent in a hundred-year-old drafty house in the middle of fricking New England, either. And it’s finally turned cold around here, as I’ve mentioned several times lately. So, without beating that horse carcass too soundly again, I’ll simply list what I wore to bed last night, the first really chilly evening of this winter:

Boxers, pair of

Socks, pulled way up

T-shirt, short-sleeved

Sweatpants

Sweatshirt, long-sleeved

For chrissakes, people, if I could have found mittens and a scarf, I’d have worn those, too. It was frickin’ cold, dammit! And while all the layers seemed to have done their job — I awoke this morning with all the bits I had when I went to bed; none had shriveled up or broken off during the night — I don’t look forward to having to do this ridiculous bundling dance every stupid night for the next six months. It’s just not me. Don’t wanna. Wah.

B. Which Underwear Would Be the Funniest?

So, my second standup show is tonight.

(In about an hour and a half, as a matter of fact. I’ll probably wrap this post up after the fact. Which you really don’t need to know — sorry, I’ll get back to it. My mistake. Please don’t beat me.)

Now, I not only want to sound good for this show, I want to feel good, too. And, like I said earlier, I do have an item or two in the wardrobe that I like more than others. So, I spent ten minutes this morning — as opposed to my usual six seconds — picking out what to wear today, finding the apparel that would make me feel most comfortable and relaxed.

I started at the very beginning, as I’d expect anyone on such a solemn mission to do. And so, right out of the shower, I spent some time picking out just the right pair of underwear. Not the funniest, necessarily. Rather, the best — the pair that fits well, isn’t too short, has the right amount of ‘breathing’ room, and maybe sports a nice pattern, to boot. Ooh, and no stains — yeah, it probably shouldn’t have any stains. Or… you know, not many. Hey, I strive for perfection in my underwear, but I’m not gonna demand it. You gotta play the cards you’re dealt, right?

So, picture me, if you can, naked and dripping and shivering cold, standing at my dresser, with the top drawer open to reveal a dozen or more pairs of boxers.

(And if you can picture that — and are willing to do so — well, you’ve got more problems than I can help you with. Seek professional help immediately, dude. Like, a frickin’ priest or something. I don’t know what’s in you, but get it out. Now.)

Anyway, I finally picked out a pair that I thought gave me the best chance to be funny tonight, and I slapped ’em on. And then the socks, and a favorite T-shirt. Next came the jeans — not the tight ones, or the ones that are still too dark and new-looking, and not the pair of my wife’s that I pulled from her dirty laundry basket. (Those are just for sniffing… oh, right, like you don’t do that, too. Uh-huh.) No, I picked out the bestest pair, and put those on, and then found a nice rugby to complete the outfit. It’s even Syracuse colors — orange and navy. Woo hoo!

Ten minutes it took me to go through this nonsense. That’s ten minutes that I could have spent sleeping, or reading, or… I don’t know, trying (again) to figure out how the hell the dog manages to lick herself. Seriously, do dogs just have no frickin’ spines or what? Damn!

What was I saying? Crotch-licking always makes me lose my place.

(Hey, if you don’t believe me, give it a try sometime. You’ll see.)

Anyway. I finally put my ensemble together, and got ready to leave the house. I don’t know whether it was any good fashion-wise, but it made me happy. Soon, you can see for yourself — I’ll have the tape of tonight’s standup show online, and you can critique my wardrobe to your heart’s content. And now that I’m in between shows again… I really don’t give a damn! Woo! Things are back to normal, and that’s ten more minutes of sleep I’ll get tomorrow. Score!

III. The Bother, Or the ‘Frostbitten Ass Cheeks’ Thing? Ooh, Decisions, Decisions…

So, I’m not a fan of wearing coats. As I’ve mentioned before, I just don’t like having to deal with the damned thing all day, in return for a few seconds of having it actually do its job and keep me warm. At least, that’s how I used to feel.

Now, of course, I’m parking in a different frigging time zone than my office, and so I’ve got a bit of a stroll on my hands in the mornings, and again in the evenings. And, in case you missed it, it’s winter now, so it’s a tad uncomfortable to be making the trek sans jacket.

And so, today, for the first time in many moons, I tracked down my winter coat, and wore it to work. This is a major milestone for me, folks. Really, I don’t like lugging the thing around. It seems to puff up somehow when I’m driving, so I look — and feel — like the damned Michelin man in my car. I’m always forgetting the damned thing — leaving it at work, or dropping it on a bus, or draping it around some streaker and then absent-mindedly walking off without it.

(Yeah, okay, on second thought, that’s the one time when I don’t want it back. Ew.)

But today, the coat would not be denied. I very nearly froze my nipples off walking to the car without it last night, so I knew that I had to take it with me today, no matter how inconvenient. Hey, look, people — my nipples were at stake. You don’t screw around when it’s your nipples on the line. That ain’t right.

So, I took the coat. And what’s more, I wore the coat. (But not in the car. I got enough problems.) And, to its credit, it did keep me — and my tender nipples — moderately warmer as I trekked to the office, and later, back to my car. So I suppose it was all worth it. Until I leave the thing lying around somewhere and lose it, that is. Then I’ll have to buy another one, and the whole stupid cycle will begin anew. Ugh. I don’t know if I have the patience.

But for now, I’m gonna wear the thing, and save my nipples out there in the harsh elements. But right now, I’ve just returned from my show. I’ve got a clip ready to be watched, and even some big news from the aftermath! But I’m too pooped to go through all that now, so you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow, I’m afraid. Don’t worry — I’ll get to you. I just need a few hours of shuteye first.

So, I’m gonna strip off my ‘lucky outfit’, right down to my comedic skivvies, and dress back up in the sweats-and-sweats outfit I wore to bed last night. And then, I’m gonna crawl under the covers and pray to every deity I’ve ever heard of to keep me warm and toasty through the night. I really never thought it would come to this, and yet here I am — dressing up for bed like I was going out tobogganning or something. How the hell did this happen? I want my life back, dammit! Somebody get me warm!