SEMPER UBI-SUB UBI, always wear underwear. MY LIFE IN UNDERWEAR.

My dad used to call them marble bags. Those white briefs that, once we are potty-trained, become our big-boy pants. Tighty-whities. At some point, as we eagerly approach adultery, some of us start looking farther afield on the underwear rack. Boxers wait for our approach. Pillow-slips. Instead of wrapping our nether areas in soft cotton, boxers fit like a loose swimsuit. Cotton in various colors and designs, sitting crisply inside your jeans. I started wearing boxers when I was 18, just short of that day I would enter adultery. Over the years underwear became made with rayon thread. First came bikini briefs, nestling things somewhat more closely. And for a while, I wore them; enjoyed them. But we gain weight and the rayon loses its elasticity. And the lifetime of those tight marble-bags are somewhat less than a penurious individual might desire. Who wants to spend money on something that can't be seen? Another advantage to boxers is, on a crisp winter day, and far from the ski lodge, it is so much easier to slide off into the trees and dig through the multiple levels of Kevlar and wool. Things are easier to find. Especially in the cold.

The top of the netherworld world, to a male, is rayon boxers. The people of Costco sell Kirkland boxxer-style underwear. And like anything else that rare corporation sells, are worthy of acclaim. I bought a 5-pack in 2019. I'm saying goodbye to them slowly. The rips and tears are converging. Less is being covered than should. Even worse, I let my Costco membership expire in that period between evacuating a marina as the Valentines Day ice-storm collapsed the timbers holding the roof over my head. It was a rough transition and money was tighter than those Speedo swimsuits. I would prefer to stay away from Target, due to their reluctance to identify as woke. But my pharmacy is there. A pharmacy I was transferred to after Right-Aid went bankrupt. So on the way out after picking up my prescription, i strolled into the nether areas of the store where men's clothing is sold. And there I found the underwear shelf, locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I pushed the button for assistance, and after what seemed like too long, a store-worker approached to assist me. I made a hasty choice, not being able to feel the cloth through the thick plastic. 4 pairs, $20 dollars, not bad given the inflationary era we've been in, she handed me the pack and I violated my boycott.

I am less than satisfied. In fact, I'm underwhelmed. They are crisp cotton, like the high-count cotton sheets in a nice hotel where you could only afford one night. That is in their favor. But I'm used to the material caressing my loins, not rubbing against me. They are not comfortable in all positions. They can wad up on the side while sleeping. Or high-rise me. Even worse, I feel the seam where i do not wish to feel the seam. The place where it would seem a seamstress would not put a seam. And on those occasions when some seepage occurs, the rayon absorbed my embarrassment. Cotton is not as forgiving. I must grow to accept them. I have too few $20 dollar bills to replace them. And who knows how many years i have left. They're cotton, so no petroleum products are used. But then again, cotton uses lots of petro-chemical fertilizers to grow, at best my strain on the planet comes out the same. 

See why I don't shop much?