Ode to Holey Underwear


I don’t know when it happened, but it has. I am a man who wears holey underwear. I mean to say, that I possess and wear underwear with holes in them. Well, actually, I wear boxers…no athletic boxers (with holes in them). Not all the time, mind you. But frequently enough, that I should examine this phenomenon more closely.

Not all of my underwear sport holes. Just some. Why these holey boxers remain in rotation is beyond me. Both the wife and I are on laundry duty, and rather than toss these tattered testes holders, we wash, fold and return them to the drawer with the rest of my undergarments. (Geesh! ‘undergarments,’ I’m such the dandy.)

It’s as if I’d never heard my mother’s admonition to always wear clean underwear, lest you find yourself in a car accident or some other mishap where folks would see your drawers. But she never said anything about not wearing holey underwear.

Maybe it’s the recession. I mean, if they still possess elastic, and can stay up, what’s a few holes? Sure, it looks like I’m wearing a loin cloth, but it’s underwear, who’s going to see ’em? (Tragic accident notwithstanding.)

You know the really sad part of it all? I’ve purchased new underwear, to replace their road weary compadres, but I still haven’t seen fit to toss the old dogs.

Why do I keep them? Nostalgia? Laziness? Poverty? No. I think it’s simpler than that (and perhaps more disturbing): when I wear holey underwear, I think, ‘my manhood did that.’

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