Greg & Deb on the Web

With the advent of the boxer brief it seems that I'm spending a lot more time in just my underwear. Somehow I'm convinced that extra three inches of fabric covering my upper thigh is all I need to avoid an indecent exposure charge when answering my front door.

Another factor in this it's okay to eat breakfast in your skivies equation is winter. Cold weather means I've been wearing T-shirts. That means all I need to do is remove a single layer of clothing and I have on my instant rest and relaxation uniform.

It's pure sloth. Every weekend morning I come downstairs looking like a refugee from an underfunded phy-ed program for paunchy men. Our parents would never think of leaving their bedrooms without underwear, pajamas, a robe and proper foot gear for padding around the house. As for me, I no longer care if all the neighbors see me standing in front of the dining room window in my green boxer briefs and Blue Man Group T-shirt.

How many layers do we need? I'm guessing, if you're not at the beach, most people feel comfortable with two layers between them and your wedding tackle.

Why?

Honey, your cow's out of the barn.

Oh.

Well, yes. There is that. However modern boxer brief technology has almost entirely eradicated cows escaping from their 100% cotton corrals. That's not to say Deb hasn't seen her share of cattle taking a peak, just to say moo. But what's the problem with the occaisional barnyard breakout among friends?

Entropy. That's the problem. The decay will continue. If I don't insist on at least pulling on a pair of sweats in the morning I'll just start wearing my underwear everywhere. Then one day, I'll need to run out and get some milk for breakfast. I'll look in the mirror and think, These things really do look like shorts. I'll walk into the store and get half-way to the dairy case before someone Debbie works with notices there's only a single layer of protection keeping them from seeing what's in the cattle pen. I'll get embarrassed and realize going to the store in just my underwear was a bad idea. I'll walk faster and faster to the checkout. By the time I make it to the register you just know a cow and maybe a couple of goats will have made their way out of the corral and into the pasture. The checkout person will notice this. He or she will sound some kind of silent alarm. I'll be wrestled to the ground by a couple of guys stocking the cereal aisle. The next thing I know I'm sitting at the police station with five or six grocery sacks artfully tied around my waist trying to get Debbie to come pick me up.

I'd better get upstairs and get some pants on. Although, these things really do look like shorts.