Sex, Suitcases, and Tighty-Whiteys: Why I Can’t Let Go

As a woman, I’m very concerned about staying attractive to my husband.  I prioritize keeping in shape, wearing clothing he finds attractive on me, and even going so far as to consider his leanings when I’m at the hair salon.  Judge me, call me old-fashioned, or whatever, but I’m the last one he sees when he goes to bed at night and the first one he sees in the morning.  It means something to me when he thinks that we’ve still got it after all these years.

That’s not to say that there are not a lot of temptations out there.  He goes off to work every day and is confronted with attractive women who don’t ask him to plunge the clogged toilet.  Turn on the TV, and there are  Victoria’s Secret models having air sex, no strings attached, and certainly no time wasted with foreplay.  And there’s lots of business travel with his job these days—nameless hotel rooms, an extra beer at dinner with the guys, and stopping for a last drink in the lobby bar instead of going up to a lonely hotel room.

I think it’s tough to be a man in a world where sex is everywhere, but men are expected to keep their ride in the garage for occasional joyrides when we happen to be in the ‘it’s ok to touch me’ mood.

I don’t find fault in a man’s weaknesses.  I think men and their lust are akin to how I feel at a dessert buffet after I’ve fasted for a few days (okay, even if I’ve skipped lunch).  Do I need to say that I’d fall off the diet wagon and my behavior would be vaguely reminiscent of Cookie Monster?  I’m not saying women are falling all over him or he’s getting propositioned on a regular (or even not so regular) basis, but why not safeguard all I can?  After all, we’ve never had a house fire, but we still make it a priority to change the batteries in the fire alarm on a regular basis.

So being conscious of the efforts I continually make to still catch his eye every once in awhile and the need to keep things fresh for both of us, I felt completely within my rights to change him from tighty whiteys to colored boxer briefs a few months ago.   As expected, I received no complaints.  He’s a generally amiable guy.

But here’s where things get a little neurotic. I haven’t ditched those darn tighty whiteys.  First of all, do you really think that they have much of a market at Goodwill? Generally, I feel guilty hanging on to clothing that is in good shape and could be used by others.  But used underwear does not evoke in me the same feelings of corporate responsibility for the greater good of the earth.

Instead of sitting in a dingy bin at Goodwill, eight pairs are stuffed in the bottom back of his jeans/shorts/swim trunks drawer.  Why eight pairs you ask?  Eight pairs of underwear are about the maximum a person would expect to need on a weeklong business trip, with one or two extras in case of accidental loss or damage.

Last week, I was helping him fold his shirts and throw the last things into his suitcase for a trip to Chicago.  I nonchalantly swapped out the boxer briefs for the tighty whiteys. When he looked at me sideways, I tried to veil my motives by saying that tighty whiteys take up less space in his suitcase.  I think he saw right through me.  He humbly humored my packing and was unflustered by my clearly less than altruistic motives.

So here’s where it’s at.  I have never thought that my husband is having an affair, but I don’t want him to get a sense of false confidence.  After all, after twelve years of tighty whiteys, I was pretty enthusiastic about the switch to boxer briefs.  After such an encouraging reception,  I don’t want my husband at a conference in some far away city like Orlando or New York thinking he’s all that in his red boxer briefs when he has the convenience of a hotel room and a tipsy woman making beer eyes at him.  Though you can get statistics to say anything you want them to, it’s generally estimated that a full 25% of men have affairs, give or take a few percentage points.

And I’d just like to know how many of those 25% were wearing tighty whiteys.  I would venture a guess that it was significantly less than 25%.  Knowing you’ve got tighty whiteys on?  It’s like a vote of ‘no confidence’ in your pants.  Regardless of whether he removes his black dress socks before he takes off his pants (what a non-starter to see a man in only black dress socks and underwear), as he sits there at the lobby bar, he’ll still know that he’s been stripped of his boxer-brief edge.

And I’ll sleep better miles away knowing that his shirts arrived relatively unwrinkled, sandwiched between the tighty whiteys.