People wrestle with demons every day. Turn on your television during the morning or afternoon and countless shows, most starting with the word “Judge” or containing the word “Court” depict people who fight some type of personal demon. There are liars, thieves, drug addicts and other ne’er do wells. I’ve been wrestling with a demon of my own.

My underwear.

Have you ever had one of those days where you put on that one pair of underpants that you absolutely know won’t cooperate with you? You know which one I’m talking about. You have two types of underwear – your favorite pair that instills confidence in you, makes you feel secure and sexy and then you have the other pair. The yin to a yang, if you will. Guess which one I put on.

It isn’t like I did it on purpose. It is the curse of not doing laundry. It is also the curse of having a wife that enjoys wearing your boxers. Your supply of clean underwear tends to diminish rather quickly, all the while that hated pair sits in wait for you. It knows that eventually you’ll run out of alternatives and that you’ll have to choose it. What’s worse is when you’re getting dressed in the dark and you can’t see the hated underwear. As you open your underwear drawer it jockey’s (HAHA! Get the pun?) for position hoping that you won’t notice that you selected it. And once you put it on it is takes on the life of an angry symbiote, using you to get out of the house and travel the world while making your life miserable.

Here in the mid-Atlantic region of the United States the weather has been unbelievably hot and humid; rather oppressing.  I tend to wear cargo shorts because they’re nice and comfy and very, very practical because of the pockets. Well, my underwear evidently didn’t like the shorts because it kept creeping up over my waistband. And then it rolled its own waistband over itself so it was like I had a belt on. It made me feel fat. It made me feel hot. It made me feel really uncomfortable because of the physics involved. The crotch of my boxers was now pressed all up against my nether regions. Walking was awkward as parts of my body were pinched and pressed by this thin layer of cotton.

I tried to fix it when I could. But then it would take a different tact. Rather than creep up my body, it would twist itself around.  When I had to use the bathroom all of a sudden I would find that my shorts had pretty much twisted halfway around my body.  The hole in my boxers where I’m supposed to be able to pull out my wang was now on the side of my hip. What the hell is that??

And then they were hot and sweaty. Yuck. I hate them. I hate them to Hell. But I can’t get rid of them. Why? Because of the numbers. Remember, you have a favorite and a hated pair of underpants. If you get rid of the hated one then you’ll be short one and the second to the last pair now becomes the most hated. It is a never ending cycle.

Heaven forbid I go commando.  How men do that with the number of erections they get during the day is beyond me. And it is sorta gross.