I got the pulsatin' rhythmical remedy (busychild424) wrote,
I got the pulsatin' rhythmical remedy
busychild424

and don't even mention briefs of any sort - they are out of the question.

I have a quandary. A conundrum, if you will.

I hate to waste things. I am not a picky eater so it's not often that I actually dislike something I'm eating, but even if I do, I'll try to finish it because I don't want it to go to waste. It's not just food either. I guess I'm like my penny-pinching dad - I want to squeeze every penny of value out of stuff. Even if someone else paid for it, I still want that person to get their full value for their dollar. Even if I'm the one getting the value. Whatever, you know what I mean.

For the last few months I have suffered from uncomfortable underwear. Mostly because I figured, hey, boxers are boxers, right? Boy was I wrong. See, I bought a few packages of no-name boxers (okay, it was PURITAN - YOU'VE BEEN WARNED) from my local giant evil capitalist retail empire location. I quickly discovered that their shoddy design combined with my particular anatomy exposed a serious problem. So to speak. See, in these particular underwears, mini-me becomes rather upset. He explains that he might as well not be protected from the inner jean at all, and when I move in certain ways, he and the small, hidden bits of inside zipper engage in a horrific dance of pain and death, requiring instant and spastic readjustment. This usually happens while I am in a meeting at work or in front of my grandparents.

Clearly this could not be allowed to continue unchecked.

However, every time I thought about getting new underwear, my dad showed up in my head and said, "But you've hardly used the ones you have, what a waste it would be not to go ahead and wear them out and just get better ones next time." (See, there's that waste thing rearing its ugly head.) So I mentally filed it away under "things to do next time I'm at Wal-Mart." (I don't learn quickly, do I? How about trying Target? Noooo. Can't be bothered.) Filing things there always results in me remembering them about one out of every thirty times I'm actually there, and I know this. So filing things that way as opposed to, say, actually writing them down is sort of an automatic indicator of low priority.

So sixty or ninety Wal-Mart trips later (which is about a week and a half for me) I've bought two or three more packages of boxers, all of different brands, but they all seem to suffer from the same egregious design flaw. I have been compensating thusly: When I get dressed, I pull on my underwear and then yank them around to the left about thirty degrees. This generally shelters mini-me from the evil zipper of death. The discomfort of sideways underwear (butt seam going up the right cheek - yeah, that's fun) and the fact that I have to launch a manhunt every time I need to pee is an acceptable compromise.

At least, it was for a while. Finally I got tired of this situation, got my head on straight and actually started scrutinizing the pictures on the underwear packages before purchasing. This in itself is a bit daunting because I have to make sure there's no one else in the aisle at the time. They might think I'm just checking out dude's tight pecs, and I TOTALLY don't swing that way. Not that it's bad. What you do with pecs is your business. I'm just not into them personally. It was particularly special the time I looked up and down the aisle both ways, went down to the end and looked around to the adjacent aisles, satisified myself that no one was around, bent down and closely examined the underwear package pictures for signs of comfort, and came up for breath to find someone like directly next to me. They pretended not to have noticed but I know they were thinking about what a desperate queer I am, and why can't I just find porn on the Internet like everyone else.

However, my efforts and ego smackdowns were rewarded. Lo and behold, Hanes makes a fantastically comfortable boxer short which has not only a handsome gentleman on the package, but a nice soft elastic waistband and a button in the front. A BUTTON. THIS IS GENIUS. I immediately picked up a few packages taking great care to throw away the cardboard insert in the kitchen trash where everyone would see it, and now my underwear situation (not to mention mini-me) is MUCH happier.

But it's not perfect. See, now I have a bunch of pairs of boxer shorts that I'll never wear again. And you know how I hate for things to go to waste. They don't quite fit right for Tandra to wear them as pajamas, so that's out, and we have way too many rags made of old clothes as it is. They'd be rather inefficient fuel for a fire, and I think that would affect their durability. They'll have a lot more longevity if I don't flambée them.

It occurred to me that I could donate them to a second hand store like the Value Center downtown by Bum Park where the homeless people hang out, but I IMMEDIATELY had to nix that idea. Not because it would directly affect me in any negative fashion, but that's just wrong, don't you think? Who donates underwear that's not unopened in the package (with the handsome gentleman)? I mean, I wash my ass, I launder my clothing regularly, and I'm not infected with anything, but you can't say that about everyone. No one in their right mind buys used underwear. That's just scary. Launder them, Lysol them, boil them, bug bomb them, I don't care - there's a line of creepiness there that I just can't cross.

Now, I know that there are plenty of people who shop at the Value Center who are not at all in their right minds - after all, it is across the street from Bum Park. And it's entirely possible that those people might be more than happy to buy used underwear, but that doesn't make it any less wrong, does it? That doesn't make it any less scary, right? I don't feel comfortable contributing to these peoples' wrong-mindedness by providing the opportunity for them to purchase used underwear. Call it philanthropy. It's my contribution to society. NO USED UNDERWEAR FOR THE CRAZIES. That's what disability checks are for.

Still, now I don't know what to do with my gently used but highly uncomfortable undies.
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