I had no idea my underwear problem would hold such interest for Reality Check readers. To be honest, I only wrote about my lack of viable “unmentionables” because, when I sat down to write this column a couple weeks back, I couldn’t think of anything better.
In that column, I admitted I do not currently have a girlfriend, mother or wife to buy my underwear and, as a result, my boxers and briefs are slowly disintegrating. I further allowed that, sure, I COULD buy my own, but doing so would be to admit I no longer believe I will ever HAVE another wife or girlfriend, and I’m just not ready to do that.
So — as I confessed in that column — I decided to continue wearing the tattered remnants of my formerly pristine BVDs until the health department issues some sort of injunction against me.
Now, I don’t know whether it’s just because it’s the Christmas season, but Reality Check readers came to the rescue big time. As of yesterday, I have received three separate deliveries of underwear, all to my home address. I find this both touching and a little bit creepy.
First off, where did you underwear-senders get my home address? I mean, I know we live in the internet age where nothing is secret, and I don’t exactly go out of my way to keep my private life private (I write about my underwear, after all) but still…
The worst part, though, was that as thoughtful as I found the gifts to be, all three senders were far too kind in their assessment of my posterior girth. To purchase underwear that fits me correctly, one must first envision a manatee clad in Fruit of the Loom whitey-tighties. This is a good starting point.
The skimpy briefs I received in the mail I will forward to Brad Pitt or Woody Allen, so they don’t go to waste. The Spiderman Underoos, however … I’m keeping those, since I’m pretty sure they were meant as a joke. Eventually, I’ll have another six-year-old grandson and they’ll make a nice birthday present.
Yet another reader — who by request will remain anonymous — suggested I try a company called Duluth Trading Company for my undergarment needs. I checked them out and at first thought they were a bit expensive. Then I took a look at the briefs being sold at our local big box stores; it turns out underwear is pricey no matter where you buy them.
Now I remember why I never purchased my own, why wives or girlfriends were always tagged to tackle the chore. I like buying “fun” stuff, like DVDs and new cell phones; underwear is too boring to waste money on.
I’m not complaining, though, really. I can go without. I’ve always considered underwear a bit superfluous; I’ve been told by ex-wives who should know that I’m something of a guerrilla. Or maybe they meant gorilla; with my back-hair issue, it’s anyone’s guess.
At any rate, folks, please stop worrying about my underwear situation. I’m sorry I brought it up. Whatever life throws my way, I’ll find a means to muddle through.
Instead, since so many of you seem to be in a giving mood, let’s talk about my crappy car. The front end’s ready to drop off, I broke the muffler on a snow bank the other day, and the left headlight switches on and off at random.
I’m not dropping any hints here, but I live in the brown house on Baldwin Lake and I’m partial to Mercedes.
Mike Taylor’s book — the perfect last-minute Christmas present! — is available at Robbins Book List in downtown Greenville. Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment