I got out of bed this morning, as I manage to do most days. And, after the requisite creaking and grumbling and scratching of various unmentionables, I made my way to the shower. As is my custom on Wednesdays.
Most Wednesdays. According to my New Years resolution, at least.
Anyway, once I was squeaky cleaned and toweled dry, I ventured off to find clean underpants. They’re the foundation of a healthy winter ensemble. But I found, to my still-dripping dismay, that there were no clean underpants in the drawer. Socks, yes. T-shirts, sure. Some sort of weird multicolored fuzzy thing that might be a scarf — or a month-old sub sandwich? Check. But underpants were conspicuously and troublingly absent.
“Somehow — was it my darting eyes, the nervous tics, or the periodic dancing-Elaine-Benes-esque kicks I used to subtly extract my underwear from up my netherhole? — people seemed clued in to my silky little secret.”
That is to say, normal underpants were absent. The only crotch-covering clothing in the underwear drawer — just sitting there, waiting, smirking at me — was the pair of emergency boxers. Silk boxers. Red silk boxers, with little hearts and “I LOVE YOU!”s printed all over.
Clearly, I faced a dilemma.
Would I don the cartoonish monstrosities, normally reserved for a ten-minute annual Valentine’s Day stint?
(Note: Don’t ask about the stint. Just… don’t.)
Or would I choose one of the other, even less attractive, options? Wearing dirty undies? Going without altogether? Walking downstairs to the basement and fishing fresh underpants out of the dryer?
Jesus. I’d already gotten out of bed and showered. What do I look like over here, fricking Superman?
So I took what I thought was the easy way out, jumped legs-first into those novelty boxers, and crammed clothes on over top. It wasn’t my finest moment — and I had no delusions about what I was getting myself into. When a woman slinks herself into a set of silky undies, she feels sexy, and pretty, and self-confident. When I yank a flimsy set of love pants around my waist, all I feel is drafty. And bunchy. And self-conscious, to boot.
The whole rest of the day, as I mingled at work and outside with the normals, I could swear that they knew. Somehow — was it my darting eyes, the nervous tics, or the periodic dancing-Elaine-Benes-esque kicks I used to subtly extract my underwear from up my netherhole? — people seemed clued in to my silky little secret. I couldn’t get out of the office fast enough tonight, so I could race home and get out of those damned telltale pants. Now I’m finally, mercifully home, and free of their heart-encrusted clutches.
Still, I put in a full day today. And I’m a lazy guy. So it’s not like I’m going to bother to walk all the way down to the basement for fresh reinforcements. That’s crazy talk. But the missus won’t let me into the bed without underpants — I mean, it’s not Valentine’s Day yet, now, is it? What’s a sorry, slothful silkophobe to do? It’s getting awfully drafty ’round these parts, and the dog is starting to give me funny looks.
Good thing there’s a brand new roll of paper towels on the holder in the kitchen. I’ll wrap a few dozen of those around me toga-style and bluff my way into bed. And maybe by morning I’ll have mustered the energy to swap out my Bounty boxers for something more conventional.
Either that, or I’ll be the most absorbent son of a bitch in the office tomorrow. At least they won’t catch me sweating during another long staff meeting. And that’s the sort of ‘silky smooth’ I can snuggle up next to.Permalink | 1 Comment