2002-10-02 - 2:52 p.m.

This one's for all the ladies. Fellas, you'll find some insights in this, too, if you're a lifelong briefs jockey. (Pun totally intended and sweet.) If you're a normal dude, just dig this piece smiling and nodding in agreement.

Yesterday I mentioned something about writing about boxer shorts today. Sure, why not. Most guys make the big boxer crossover when they're about 12 or 13. Some probably do it later or earlier; I don't know. It's not a major topic for discussion among us. But as every guy who's ever switched from briefs to boxers can tell you, those initial couple weeks represent your first experiment in adolescent freedom. We're talking breathing room, hang time, and a new awareness of your own burgeoning dirtiness. Yeah buddy.

I think the only way to recapture that initial state of bliss -- that impossible-to-reproduce first and best high -- is to go full-on commando. Not only would that thrill, too, wear out soon, it would severely shorten the laundry cycle of anybody's pants. We're talking instant quarantine. At least, we should be talking instant quarantine. The irony of course is that the very blokes with the, excuse me, balls to go commando are undoutbtedly the very fellows who are least diligent in their hamper-stuffing. Sad, really.

So that initial rush is gone but not forgotten. We love our boxers -- passionately and unconditionally, until they disintegrate before our very eyes. Take my boxers, for instance. (Actually, you best not. I need them.) I've got a few living hall-of-famers in the drawer. I refer to these (in my own mind only, I assure you) as The Class of '96. That's right. I'm a member too -- that's when I was graduated from high school. But these boys were just born that year. Some in '95 even, but I can't pinpoint whihc ones. All I know is I was a senior in high school. The Target men's department was good to me that year.

Almost immediately, much like their anonymous third-world creators, they were put to work. And they haven't been given a vacation since. Six years is a long time to go without a break, and this tenacious (and ever-shrinking) crew shows the signs of aging: frayed edges, threadbareness in high-friction areas, and weak elastic. It's a shame, really. Catching a toenail as I put them on would tear any one of them to shreds. But damn how they age so fine. Softer and softer with every high-temp spin cycle.

And I mourn their respective passings. It pains me to just toss them into my room garbage, but what else to do? It's too late for a quilt. They've already been decimated. But as they grow old, the former rookies in the drawer start earning their stripes and blessing me with their softness. So don't mourn for the Class of '96. It's all part of the circle of life.