My dad and I used to wear the same underwear by virtue of the fact that neither of us did our own laundry.
His clothes would get mixed into mine, mine into his and it bugged me to tears.
He’s a short, stocky man and his underwear took on that same personality. I could have easily worn something else, but in the morning, you just grab whatever and you go about your day.
But as soon as I walked out that door, I would regret it. His boxers would ride up my thighs like ivy on a wall. They were as wide as parachutes too so they provided a donut hole worth of support.
How he got through days wearing mine will forever remain a medical mystery.
I suppose you could say that one of the many perks of moving out of my parents home is that I don’t have to deal with those kind of shenanigans anymore.
I am my own man. And this man wears his own boxers.
But then I got here to New York and…
I don’t know if it was my subconscious getting to me or what, but when I opened my suitcase, somehow a pair of Perry Ellis boxers was on top of the pile.
Did he pack it in there to remind me of him?
Whatever the case may be, I can’t see those Perry Ellis boxers without being reminded of my silly dad walking around in butt-hugging Calvin Klein boxer briefs that go down to his knees, too lazy or too apathetic to change into a pair of his own parachute briefs, blindly wearing whatever his mother-in-law put in front of him…wondering why today, his thighs were chafing.
I guess these Perry Ellis boxers remind me of those happy days; I can now say that I wear them with affection, wedgie and all.
But it also reminds me that it’s laundry day (My equivalent of the “Granny Panties” for you girls).
Otherwise, I’ll suffer the indignity of sillE yerrP’s crawling up my ass-crack tomorrow.