Like a lot of husbands, I’ve been accused on occasion of not listening. By “on occasion,” I mean a few times every day. However, my wife knows one way to get my attention:
“I got a coupon.”
I’ve also been accused of being a cheapskate, although I prefer terms like frugal or spending-challenged. I’m definitely not embarrassed to present a coupon and save a few bucks.
She said it was for a store that specializes in women’s underwear and lingerie and such. I’d reveal the name of the store, but I prefer to keep that a Secret. I wasn’t all that interested in the product, but I was still interested in saving a few bucks. However, I was unimpressed that the coupon was to get seven panties for $35.
You’ve probably seen panties from this particular store. I suspect seven of their panties takes about 3.5 cents worth of material. I nearly spit out my generic coffee when she told me how much they cost.
“That’s a special?! I haven’t spent $35 on underwear in the past 20 years!”
That’s not hyperbole. In fact, if my wife didn’t insist on throwing my underwear away just when they get to feeling comfortable, I might never have to buy underwear again.
“I had to throw them away — they had holes in them!” That’s the kind of warped logic she often uses as a lame excuse for discarding perfectly good drawers.
“Of course they have holes in them! Duh, that’s you get your legs in them!”
“How many legs do you have? Are you an octopus?”
Look, I’m not just a guy — I’m a middle-aged guy. There are only two things we middle-aged guys look for in underwear: They need to be super-comfortable and inexpensive. I haven’t cared about how my underwear looked on me since I supported myself through college as a dancer in a male revue — the Possum Holler Hippendales. It was not unusual for me to bring in upwards of $25 to $30 in a single night — my standard fee for leaving before the vomiting got out of control.
When it comes to women’s underwear, it seems the less there is to it, the more it costs. By the time you get up to $100 or so for a pair of panties, they just hand you a bag with nothing in it and tell you it’s the new sheer look, like you’re wearing nothing at all.
It’s kind of like fancy restaurants, the ones where they make you wear ties — also known as the kind I don’t go into. It seems the more you pay at these restaurants, the smaller the food gets. Around the $100-a-plate level, you get some little ball of something covered in parsley with a side of mango squirrel chutney or something. By the time you’re spending $200 on dinner, all you get is a clean plate to look at. They don’t even have to wash them when you’re done. You just pay the ungodly bill and decide that it must have been really good at that price.
For guys like me, I like my drawers the same way I like my restaurants — cheap and comfortable. Of course, I usually decide if a restaurant is any good by the amount of dirty pickup trucks parked outside. If it attracts these folks as customers, I figure it’s good.
That’s not how I pick out my underwear store, though. I pick those out the same way I decide where to purchase fireworks. I need to see a sign like “Buy 1, get 5 free.” That’s the kind of economics that moves firecrackers and drawers.
It’d also be enough drawers to keep me supplied forever more. Well, unless I get dragged to one of those fancy restaurants and the waiter hands me a bill.
“What?! Uh-oh, I believe I’m going to need to hit the underwear store on the way home.”