My girlfriend just threw away my favorite pair of underwear.

Because we've been living together for the last year, my girlfriend, Jen, calls me her "domestic partner". I'm not really sure what it means, but that's a lot nicer than what most women have called me.

I think it means I've been domesticated, like a breed of cat. My meals are prepared for me, I get an occasional scratch behind the ear, and I'm supposed to give up going to the bathroom outside. Two out of three probably counts.

We've learned a lot about each other over the past year. For example, I've learned that I can get into a lot of trouble for small things, like wearing shoes to bed. I've also learned that, left unguarded, Jen will try to buy me new underwear.

She's always been jealous of my underwear. Jen has thousands of pairs of underwear, whole bureaus devoted to the cornucopia of silk and lace, so she couldn't understand the special bond I have with my underpants, especially on warm days. She just sees tighty-whiteys that live up to the first part of their name far more than the second.

My underwear and I have a lot of good memories. Prior to being domesticated, I'd sit around in my underwear late at night, watching cable television and eating fried chicken until the neighbors woke up and chased me out of their house. These days, I'm not allowed to walk around in my skivvies. Doing so makes Jen very upset. "Nobody needs to see that," she'll say. Or the ever popular, "That's no way to act around company."

I have a few "classic" pairs of underwear that have been with me for years. They're battle hardened soldiers, waiting in the back of my drawer for that day when I run out of laundry and call them up for active duty. To paraphrase Macarthur: old underpants never die, they just fade away.

Imagine my horror to find MY PRECIOUS UNDERWEAR in the trash yesterday.

"But I bought you new ones," Jen said.

"That's not the point!" I held up the pair I had fished out of the trash. "What's wrong with THIS pair?"

"They're covered in coffee grounds. And I think the white bits are egg shells."

"Because YOU threw them in the trash!"

True, my favorite pair of underwear has seen better days. Most are designed with a hole for each leg, but mine appears designed for a pair of octopuses. Cotton holds to waistband less by thread than by hope. The exhausted elastic was looking forward to a quiet retirement at the back of my drawer.

So we reached a compromise. Jen found out about a farm where old underwear can go to live out their final days. She says that if I'm really good, I might even be able to go visit someday, to show my new underwear what it can look forward to.

General Macarthur would be pleased.

Copyright © 2006 Andy Murphy
Please do not remove the copyright from this work.

Send by Email! | Contact Us! | Permanent Link