It’s hard to communicate efficiently with a man in his underpants.  Boxers, briefs, whatever is you call them in your house.  I don’t think most men realize how difficult it is to take them seriously when they’re standing around in their skivvies. 

For twenty years I have tried to impress this fact upon my husband, a man who believes in his stony little heart that boxers are on par with other casual wear languishing away in his armoire.  This is a man who isn’t the least bit phased by the fact that I receive constant phone calls from neighbors who ask me if I know he’s at the mailbox in his Sponge Bob Squarepants boxers.  Like the warden of a rather unruly mental ward, I chuckle weakly and explain that I am very aware of the breach in security and I’m on it.  You should know that our mailbox is not located on the outside of our house or at the edge of our property line – it is down the block a ways, a big metal box that houses mail for a dozen and a half homes.  Rudimentary math skills reveal that is a potential audience of nearly 70+ people subjected to my husband’s meandering about in his grown-up Underoos.

 

Sigh.

 

Oh, and it doesn’t end at the mailbox, these random sightings of my spouse in his colorful undergarments.  The doorbell will ring and the rest of our household will charge, like tiny NFL linebackers, to block the patriarch before he can answer.  Even the cat makes an attempt to get there before he does.  Heaven help us if we’re otherwise engaged and miss our window of opportunity.  We end up standing in the hallway, listening as the door slowly creaks open, whispering a silent prayer that it’s an understanding, familiar voice that cracks wise about the All My Exes Live in

Texas

shorts.

 

There will be tales told about this paternal quirk, quite possibly from a therapist’s sofa, when my teenage daughter is grown and out of our house.  It will take tremendous effort for my darling girl to hold her head up high when she tells the story about how her dad once chased a boy out of the house, all while sporting a pair of Scooby Doo cotton drawers.  Her dad.  Not the boy.

 

Over time, I have made many attempts to explain to Mr. Katz that walking around in your knickers tends to lessen a man’s credibility.  I thought for sure that one story in particular would influence him, about a lawyer friend who told his wife he could weed out undesirable job candidates just by looking at basic information on a resume stating, “Honey, there is no way I can hire a man whose email address is NoPantsDancer!”  I have to agree.  While my spouse doesn’t necessarily dance in his underpants, I can see how the concept of the pants will play while the Katz is away could be a strike against a guy in the workplace.  Or at home, for that matter.