I was looking at the very sad state of affairs in the sock and jock section of the wardrobe.
A note here about the shopping habits of men. Socks and underwear are the least interesting thing a man can shop for. It’s more fun going to the supermarket, Ikea, dentist, the welfare office, you name it. Men try to avoid this activity at all costs.
Even if we have a hot date, there will be no underwear purchasing, just a choice of the best of the lot. Or the lucky pair will get a special pre-laundry day wash.
Men have a few moments where they realize, Ok this is getting critical now, but there will still be at least three aborted attempts to get to a Target, when we get waylayed by an Urban Outfitters sale. Damn them and their never-ending array of desirable t-shirts!
Then one day you pull open the sock and jock drawer to discover a crime scene; elastic all wrinkle, puckered and shot to hell, holes where that damn Californian moth has done a drive by and every sock you see is an orphan. This is when you have to man up and head in for a sock and jock recon.
So I’m at the Gap, and since this is a tri annual event, I buy up big. I get black jocks, white jocks and socks up the wazoo. I even have a pair of baby blue y-fronts, which could overtake the four leafed clover patterned boxers as the new “lucky pair”. Cute.
So I wash and tumble dry them all and am folding them up feeling somehow pure and new again. All this unworn cotton makes me feel so weirdly happy.
Then I pick up the baby blue ones.
Maybe it’s cruel joke that someone in the factory in Guatemala decided to play, maybe it was too much beetle nut chewing, maybe it was a strike against the first world freedom of America, or maybe I just hadn’t had enough coffee.
But I bet my balls it said Medium on the pack, I know it did. Yet there they are, all 10 centimeters squared of them, Extra Small. And now that I have tumble-dried them in the 20 Brooks Speed Queen Hotter Than Hades Tumble-Dryer, they are more like XXS. These are borderline Baby Gap.
After the sad reality that I just shrank $6.99 sets in, the rather pedophilic visual of me and these undies, which I’m holding up close to my face to inspect the label, comes to mind.
Well thank God no one saw this. Ha, ha, ha.
And cue, a neighbor passing by the laundry door. Just long enough for her to look in and scope the scene. Not long enough for me to say, “this isn’t what you think.” But definitely long enough for her to see the look on my face of being caught red-handed with the baby blues.
I am now officially the creepy, nudie, peeping tom, boy’s undie dude of #304.