At 51 years old, 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 51 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 48 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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