My Wife Wears Boxer Shorts

Not too many years ago, only men wore boxer shorts; but times have changed. Today, the intrepid boxer short is no longer exclusively male, having succumbed to the resurgent tide of female fashion.

As tee shirts, blue jeans, and manly sweat socks have gone before, so has the venerable boxer short found its way to the distaff side of the clothes closet; and I am the one you can blame for it. Six years ago, shortly after we married, I introduced my wife to boxer shorts, number one choice in sleep wear among rugged men of action. Now, it seems, all the women are wearing them.

In times of old, no self-respecting woman would wear boxer shorts. After all, boxer shorts had been designed with a man in mind. The large flap in front allowed easy access; thus could the male urinate on a tree while standing erect some distance away, a quick and efficient form of relief anatomically impossible for women and, therefore, unfathomable to them. A baggy fit also enhanced the acoustics for a wide range of disgusting noises men were wont to attempt.

As every virtuoso knows, only the male of the species can reach the chords required of "heralding trumpets." This is not an accident of evolution; rather, it is the result of generations of father-to-son talks and strict muscle control. A standard diet of beer and Nacho cheese chips aids in the endeavor, but chemical reactions often fall short of optimal. If the moment calls for music, and natural gas is not at hand, the resourceful man cups a palm of one hand under an armpit and flaps like a chicken. This emits a most resonant pitch, much admired by other males in the vicinity. Alas, in a moment of passion, yours truly revealed both of these age-old male secrets to his wife.

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I got my first glimpse of a real pair of boxer shorts one warm evening in the summer of 1959. For two months, my Uncle Joe and I shared sleeping quarters in a small, homemade camping-trailer parked in the back yard of my parent's house in the rural countryside. As we prepared for bed the first night, Joe, a forty-five-year-old man of the world, dropped his trousers and prepared to crawl in the sack. A full moon shone through an open flap in the door and cast a cool beam on his stout form, resplendent in plain white boxer shorts, the picture of virility. Staring down at Roy Rogers and Trigger galloping across my shrunken flannel pajamas, I suddenly felt the need for a new fashion statement.

In the pre dawn mist, Joe's bunk lay empty, as he had been summoned by the call of Nature. Somewhere off in the darkness water splattered on bark. Seconds later came the low, unmistakable growl of a male biped marking his territory. All stood right in the world.

As soon as I left home, in my first semester of college and with the proceeds of my first pay check from my first part time job, I bought my first pair of boxer shorts. They were red tartan, with the customary flap in front. Later, in the army, I would receive three pairs of plain white ones like Uncle Joe had worn. Since then, boxer shorts have been staple items in my wardrobe.

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I don't know why I sold out. It all happened so fast. One day, my wife asked if she could try on a pair of my boxer shorts, and I thought it harmless enough; but a woman fills out a pair of boxer shorts like no man ever did.

Put a man in a pair of boxer shorts, and all you get is a lot of hairy thigh poking out of some very functional sleep wear. With a woman, well, a woman doesn't just pull on a pair of boxer shorts; she slips into them. On a man, boxer shorts hang; on a woman, they cling. Where a man is all hirsute muscle, a woman bares smooth, supple curves.

My wife liked the feel of the pure cotton. She liked the way it caressed her skin. Most of all, she enjoyed the loose fit and comfort. One look at my wife lying on the bed in those boxer shorts, and I started babbling, spilling my guts like a school kid, handing away my birthright.

After that, when shopping for clothes, my wife made me go in the men's department and buy boxer shorts for her. Then Victoria's Secret began carrying them. Now, they have their own line, with lace trim and pastel colors. Leave it to a bunch of women to ruin the simplicity of a perfectly good product.

Now, my wife's collection of boxer shorts rivals my own; and, sometimes, the two get mixed in the wash. Once, I reached in the drawer and yanked out a nice green plaid design and tried to pull them on. They rose no higher than my knees. When that happens, a smart man knows he is beaten.

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These days, my wife has taken over the sofa in our living room. There, she lounges in her boxer shorts for hours on end, drinking beer, munching Nacho cheese chips, and flipping through the sports channels on TV. Every once in a while, a loud noise rips through the house.

Have you noticed how many men have taken up crocheting in recent years? That's because the sewing room is the only quiet place left in the home. It's our last refuge.