My husband has a special relationship with his clothes. It’s a commitment. He wears them until they fall off. And not in a sexy way. Think more “archaeological dig” than “romantic striptease.”
Now, I’m not talking about a favorite shirt he’s emotionally attached to or a pair of jeans with a story. I’m talking about T-shirts that are more hole than fabric, and underwear that… well, let’s just say they’ve retired from being underwear and are now honorary members of the household.
If I dare buy him something new — a fresh pair of briefs, a shirt without daylight coming through it — it will sit in the closet, tags on, like a museum piece. For years. Seriously!
Once, years ago, I bought him some new T-shirts and underwear. He found them and acted like I had insulted his ancestors. He was genuinely upset. His mother was visiting and overheard the drama. She gave me this look like, “What have you done?”
So I said, “Come with me.” I marched her to his drawer, opened it, and pulled out Exhibit A.
She took one look at that piece of elastic and thread pretending to be underwear and lost it. I mean full-on, can’t-breathe, tears-down-the-face laughter. She couldn’t speak. I don’t even think she breathed for a solid minute.
To this day, that moment is one of my favorites. I didn’t have to exaggerate — and believe me, I am a storyteller. But this? This was pure truth. A holy relic of proof that I was not, in fact, the unreasonable one.
The new underwear? Still in the drawer. Tag on. I think it’s collecting dust now, possibly dating back to a past century.
And just when you think I’m exaggerating again — I give you this. Look at the photo. These are his favorite work shorts. His favorite. As you can see, they’re barely holding it together.
And that rip in the back? Oh yeah. That’s not an accident. That’s ventilation. And yes — in case you’re wondering — they do match his underwear. It’s a coordinated disaster.
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