Thinking Out Loud
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"You know Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocketship underpants don't help" ~ Calvin
Everyone has favorite underpants.
Go on, admit it, you do.
Maybe for the superstitious athlete, it's their "lucky ones" they wear to insure a win. Unwashed from game to game, of course, so as not to ruin their 'luckiness'.
For some of you men, it might be your 'tighty-not-so-whitey-anymore' thread-bare pair, that you just can't give up, despite your wife's best effort to convince you otherwise.
Because to you, they're your signal it's going to be a relaxing Sunday afternoon with the remote in one hand and a cold one in the other. They're not going to be snuggling with anything more than the leather recliner and that's just fine with you.
For us gals, it may be our 'granny panties' that means we are actually allowing ourselves to be comfortable for a night, while we watch our chick flicks and eat Chunky Monkey ice cream right from the pint.
There's no denying an ill-fitting pair of underpants can turn an otherwise beautiful day, into one that is capable of inducing severe tension headaches and the occasional small migraine.
Who hasn't come home almost in tears and ripped off their scratchy, too tight, too loose, or worse yet, the 'wandering into nether regions' underpants and have frustratingly thrown them in our best Shaq-style overhand into the garbage can for a 3 pointer?
I know I have.
It may seem a trivial problem, but I think it's importance is seriously underrated.
Because we weren't born wearing underpants. We were forced into them.
From that moment on we have been relegated to a life long quest to find and keep suitable and functional and alluring yet comfortable underpants, in our dresser drawers and on our behinds.
Which can sometimes be like pan-handling for gold in a barren land.
Or trying to find Waldo.
We hang on to them for so long, because saying goodbye to our comfy cotton pal is as hard as saying goodbye to an old friend. When we finally have to send them to unmentionables heaven, (because we know we'd embarrass our mothers if we ever got in an accident in them), it is a very sad day, indeed.
You are not alone, I feel your pain. I just had to say "so long" to a favorite pair that were older than my son.
My son is a teenager.
It was their time.
I realize I don't know how many of you are out there rolling your eyes right now as you read this, maybe appalled at the absurdity of the subject matter, but that's OK.
I know there are just as many of you nodding your heads in solidarity, while you adjust a wedgie for the 432nd time already today.
I say we band together, stage a 'sous un pantaloon' coup and try to do something radical to fix the problem of bad underpants. A rally against their manufacturers using substandard materials may be a good start.
Furthermore, I say we rebel against those who would take away the freedom of us keeping and wearing our favorite pair, no matter how ugly, worn or hideous they are.
Let's fight for our right to bear our most treasured skivvies!
Are you in?
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Diane Szczepanski |
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