This is an open letter to every person who has ever had to deal with my son, Clyde, in any way whatsoever. Please know these two things: one, he does own underwear. And two: I’m really, really sorry.
Really.
But back to the first thing: I know that it may be hard for you to believe, but Clyde actually does owns lots and lots of underwear. What’s more, most of it is still in pristine condition, because—as you no doubt know all too well—he doesn’t ever wear any of it.
Now, I know that there are lots of people out there who like to “go commando.” Britney Spears comes, rather infamously, to mind, as do a host of other soon-to-be-famous-for-all-the-wrong-reasons celubutantes. In fact, I could easily believe that absolutely no one wears underwear anymore—that, in fact, underwear has gone the way of the bustle and the farthingale. That is, I could believe that, if it wasn’t for the fact that every time I go to a department store I seem to be confronted by enormous, shimmery pyramids of underwear. (This is in the women’s department, mind you—in the men’s department all of the underwear seems content to keep to itself, not only maintaining a very proper, respectful distance from the socks, but even going so far as to have each piece remain chastely inside of its own bag.)
So yeah, obviously somebody, somewhere, is buying underwear. Of course, whether or not they are actually wearing any of it still remains to be seen. (Or rather, more saliently, remains not to be seen.) Either way, it’s a mystery—as it should be.
With Clyde, however, it is never a mystery. On the contrary, it is often as plain as the nose on his face, or rather, the—well, I’m sure you don’t need me to draw you a picture (and in fact would probably prefer that I didn’t).
In Clyde’s defense, it is possible that he is simply confused about when it is and isn’t appropriate to “let it all hang out.” Perhaps he just needs a clear explanation of the rules, something along the lines of the Idiot’s Guide to Underclothing—hopefully one that comes complete with pictures, flow charts, and real life examples.
For example, the book might list a scenario such as this: if you are involved in any sort of rough physical play where there is a very real chance that your pants might become ripped well past the Incredible Hulk stage, then you should wear underwear. Or: if your waist is so small, and your hips and buttocks so non-existent that pipe cleaners and broom sticks gaze upon you with envy, then you should wear underwear. And finally: if, like with tying your shoes, zipping up and/or buttoning your pants is a skill that still eludes you, you should definitely wear underwear. (You’ll notice I said nothing about being one of those guys who likes to wear their pants halfway to their ankles—those guys always wear underwear. Unfortunately, they also always seem to wear underwear that is of the gray, holey variety. Guys, guys, trust me on this: when you’re on a date and suddenly need to pick something up from off the ground, you don’t want your date’s thoughts to be trending in the direction of “Does this guy even know what a washing machine is?”)
For years, before I had kids, I always said that I didn’t want my kids growing up to be ashamed of their bodies. But then I had Clyde, and my opinion has undergone a radical change. In fact, lately I’ve even started to think that maybe a little shame is a good thing—if, by “shame,” you mean underwear. And believe me: I do.