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FREEDOM COMES
IN MANY STYLES
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As my golden years become closer, I decided it was
time for a monumental change in my life. Knowing it would be a shock to my
wife, I chose an opportune moment at the breakfast table to break the news.
"I want to be free," I said nonchalantly
as I downed the last drop of my nutritional shake.
She didn’t bother looking up from her newspaper.
"See ya. Have your lawyer call my lawyer."
"I don’t want to be free of you," I
replied. "I’m talking about setting Oscar and the twins free."
That got her attention. She may not have cared much
about me walking out the door, but she had a soft spot in her heart for
Oscar and the twins.
"That’s right," I said. "After 54 years,
I’ve decided to get rid of my Tidey Whiteys and change over to
boxers."
"That’s what you wanted to tell me? You’re
changing your underwear?"
"It’s a huge decision. First diapers for
three years (I was kind of slow) and then Tidey Whiteys for 54 more years.
Oscar and the twins have never really been free for any extended period. I
think it’s finally time to let them go."
My wife wasn’t convinced. "There must be
more to it."
And there was. For years my sons had walked around
the house in their boxers, and even done some spur of the moment swimming in
mixed company when no real bathing suit was available. You just can’t do
that with Tidey Whiteys.
"All right," I admitted, "I want to
walk around the house in my underwear every once in awhile."
The kids were gone, the shades were drawn. She
looked across the table and nodded at my t-shirt and Tidey Whitey underwear
I was wearing.
"And not feel like an idiot," I added.
Convinced that any look would be better than the current
one, my wife agreed to join me on an underwear shopping spree at Macy’s.
Vowing to never spend another day wearing Tidey Whitey’s, we went that
afternoon.
The choices were mind-boggling. To my wife’s dismay, I
quickly ruled out the classic boxers, which had all the different prints on
them and looked just like bathing suits. The fabric was a little rough for
me, and they were a little too baggy. I thought they’d bunch up on my leg
when I pulled my pants over them, and I couldn’t have that.
Oscar and the twins might have been happy with them, but
I wouldn’t, and I’ve got the veto power. Usually.
In the end, after much searching and no help from any
salespeople (where’s an underwear salesman when you really need one?) we
chose a glorious silk number with a lovely print, along with a standard grey
cotton Jockey boxer and a racy black all-cotton Calvin Klein signature
model.
Over the next three days, I wore each one, parading
around the house each morning to my wife’s horror and then getting dressed
and experiencing the texture and feel during the day under my clothes.
The silk, I decided, might work if I lived in Zimbabwe,
but it was a little chilly when the fog rolled in. Freedom should be warmer.
That left the Jockey’s and the Calvin Klein’s. There
was nothing really wrong with the Jockey’s, but let’s face it, when you
think of Jockey underwear, you think of Tidey Whitey’s. On the other hand
I couldn’t picture Calvin Klein wearing anything but boxers. And besides,
they were black and if I was going to make a change, I was going all the
way.
"I’ve made a decision," I announced from
behind the bedroom door on the fourth morning. "Are you ready for the
new me?"
"Wait a minute," she replied, and I could hear
her drawing the curtains and shades throughout the house.
"There’s no need to hide anymore," I shouted.
"They’re boxers. No one will know I’m walking around in my
underwear, and if they did notice, they won’t care."
To prove my point, I headed for the front doorstep, where
I picked up the paper and then straightened up and paused while I perused
the morning headlines, resplendent in my black Calvin Klein boxers.
Oscar, the twins and me---free at last. At least until I
got yanked back in the door.
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