Out of Underpants

If you read one of my first entries in this blog -- oh, so long ago -- you know about my practice of throwing away my old underpants as I use it when traveling. It won’t surprise very many of you that, since I’m not particularly “math-inclined,” I counted wrong. In short, that means I threw away all of my underpants before I should have. That means, of course, that I had to buy new underpants -- in France, where XXL apparently means small.

There was time that I believed all French people were thin. That is no longer the case. They’re not all fat -- yet -- but I highly recommend that they quickly cut down on the croissants and champagne (as I am about to do) because they are getting, in their own word, gros (big). Don’t even get me started on the Germans (we’re in the business lounge in the Frankfort airport as I write this.) Apparently the advent of McDonalds onto the European landscape has its attendant problems.

Anyway, back to my underpants. (No, I don’t really call them “underpants.” I call them “briefs” or “big-boy boxers.” I’m only calling them underpants here to distinguish between my undershirts, which also technically qualify as underwear.) So, donned in my last pair of clean underpants, (in addition to other clothes, of course) Brad and I found the “Monoprix” (K-Mart, in my view) and I chose a package with the photo of the hunkiest guy (as opposed to “chunkiest,” which I should have looked for.) It may have been because of all the champagne the previous day, but as I gazed at the photo on the package, I could see myself. Wow, was I good looking!

This turned out to be an error...as was the size marked on the package. Speaking of “packages” (double-entendre) I didn’t notice until I got home that there was no “fly” on the front of these briefs. Now they’ve basically gone from being briefs for a hunky/chunky guy to being, well, women’s panties. There’s no door for the horse to get out of the barn, if you catch my drift. Still, they are made of the softest cotton I’ve ever felt against my skin which makes it almost worthwhile that I am now required to drop my drawers to my knees while standing at the urinal.

This fascinating story has a point, believe it or not. Alas, when I threw away my last pair of underpants, I knew our time in France had some to an end. Merde. In a few hours, we will board Lufthansa flight number 446 to Denver -- and back to reality.

It’s been a good ride. Thanks for joining me for part of it...

(And thanks, especially, to those of you who let me know you were reading!)