It all started a month ago when my wife announced that she would no longer be buying me any underwear, for Christmas or otherwise. She said she was out of the underwear business. "If you want new underwear, buy it yourself." Those were her very words.
I've been around her for a while now and I can usually tell when she needs a little boost. So I laid my best line on her. "Why don't you get some rest. You'll feel more like buying my underwear in the morning."
She rebuffed me immediately. "You don't understand. I'm not buying you any more underwear. Ever. You're an adult, you do it."
As a general rule, when she recognizes me as an adult, it's serious. I tried again. "Don't worry about the kids, I'll fix them dinner and get them to bed."
She blew me off again. "The kids are fine," she said calmly. "The house is fine, the car is fine, and I love my job. But I'm not buying you any more underwear."
I couldn't believe that I was listening to the same woman I married ten years ago. "She doesn't know what she's saying" I told myself. I mean, after all, it's totally against the rules for guys to buy their own underwear.
As a matter of fact, I've never bought any underwear in my entire adult life. I don't even know where it comes from or what it costs. It just shows up in my drawer, like it was dropped off by the Boxer Fairy.
Just thinking about shopping for underwear made me hyperventilate. I left the room to inventory my supply. When I did, I realized that I was already skirting the edges of Undergarment Disaster.
Reviewing my stock, I found that I had the following: one new pair, one wearable pair, two worn out pairs, three ratty pairs, two sub-ratty pairs, and nine pairs of cheesecloth clinging to a waistband.
That's when I decided to try a little reverse psychology on my wife. "You know, you're right. I'm a man. Just because I've never bought my own underwear doesn't mean I can't start. Besides, I need to grow as a shopper."
I paused for effect and awaited a response, hoping that my gut wrenching self-revelation would cause her to retract her earlier pronouncement. "Okay," she chirped and kept on reading her magazine.
"Can you tell me what size to get?," I asked, trying hard to sound helpless. She told me matter-of-factly.
"What about colors and styles and stuff, do I need to know anything?" There it was, in plain view - I played the pitiful card.
She hardly even responded. "Just get whatever you want," she said.
As promised, I came up empty on Christmas day. The next day, I got directions to the mall. After an hour of wandering, I found the Underwear Section. I was glancing at the underwear out of the corner of my eye when a salesperson approached and practically shouted for the whole store to hear, "Can I help you with some underwear, sir?"
"No, no," I babbled excitedly, waving my hands wildly as if to deflect the attention in another direction. "I was just looking at the socks. I think I left my truck running in the parking lot, I'll be right back." I ran all the way to the car and spent fifteen minutes pretending to check the ignition. When the coast was clear, I fled.
Once I got back home, I checked my inventory one more time. I really think I can get by until next Christmas if I double up on the cheesecloth.
If that doesn't get to her, nothing will.
http://accesswdun.com/article/2003/2/183269