The Holy Underwear
The other night I was getting ready for bed, when my husband Kurt walked by in underwear, with a small hole in the seam.
The sight of hole made me laugh due to the memory it conjured up.
It was a memory of an incident that happened about 16 years ago when our son Evan was about 8 years old.
Kurt had walked through the bedroom, similar to this night, except for one main difference, his underwear looked more like Swiss cheese.
I remember standing there speechless as I watched him cross the room shocked that after 17 years together he was still able to surprise me.
I mean, this was a person so picky he felt uncomfortable using a public restroom.
Yet, he was wearing underwear that I wouldn’t use to clean a public restroom. Still, I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
After all, it was possible he had no idea his underwear was full of holes — maybe he got dressed in the dark.
Although, I don’t know how he would have figured out which holes to put his feet through.
Regardless, I just smiled lovingly at the man I had committed my life to and politely asked him if he was aware his underwear looked like they had been attacked by a grizzly bear.
Kurt looked at me with a mouth full of yogurt, some of which was dripping down his chin (a story for another time), then glanced at the macrame plant holder he was wearing and said rather casually, “oh… yeah.”
Like I just asked him if heard it might rain tonight.
Okay, I could feel judgement seeping in now causing me to shoot back with the question I really wanted to ask, “Did you wear those all day under your business suit?”
Once again, all I got was a casual, “yeah.”
To which I responded, “Why would you wear something like that when you have a drawer full of nice, intact, Calvin Klein underwear?”
Without skipping a beat he replied, “They’re more comfortable.”
At this point my understanding of men truly ground to a halt.
You see my husband has exemplary taste.
Everyday he headed out the door to work in expensive, high-end clothes.
So I couldn’t understand how he could be so picky about what he wore on the outside, while just beneath the surface, he was harboring underwear that resembled a tattered loincloth.
I began to wonder if maybe I was the crazy one.
Then, I realized, I needed another opinion.
So I went in search of the only other human in my house, our son, Evan.
Evan was laying on his bed playing video games when I interrupted him and asked him to follow me into my bedroom.
Kurt was now standing in front of the TV eating a bowl of cereal while staring at a MASH rerun.
This position allowed for a perfect view of “Exhibit A”.
So, without delay, I said to Evan, look at your dad’s holey underwear.
I was certain he would be as shocked as I was.
Evan stood there for a moment staring, then looked at me and asked, with all the innocence of a child, “How are they holy? Are they from a church?”
It was in that moment that I realized just how alone I was in this testosterone laden house.
In fact, the closest thing I had to an estrogen sympathizer was my cat Lula bell.
However, with the constant path of destruction she left around the house, I had doubts she was a true allie.
So, I let it go.
Since that night, I can’t help but wonder what lurks beneath the clothing of other individuals I pass on the street each day.
Maybe I’m the real freak, with my matching underwear outfits, and everyone else is happily moving through their life in torn pieces of undergarment.
In fact, maybe, eventually, word of my husband’s “holy” underwear will get out, and people will gather from around the world to pray before them.
Lisa Alex Gray is a creative writer, who writes creative stories, creatively. Connect with me on Instagram @LisaAlexGray to say hi or to ask me to stop writing.