A set of three circumstances twirled together – a 30% coupon from the folks at The Store, a need, and the missus busy with something else – giving me enough rope to do something I’ve never done before. Buy new underwear.

Certainly I’ve been the recipient of everything from new big boy pants to new old man drawers, but it’s been either a mom or a missus doing the buying. What I’m saying is…much like (shhhh) signing the back of my paycheck since I’ve been married, using the word “splendiferous,” or spitting (among other things) into the wind...I’ve never walked into the men’s section of a store, picked up a three pack of 100% cotton briefs or boxers and made my way to the check out. Never ever, but with time on my hands these days, I thought, “Why not?”

I learned why not. It is a frightening place, that there aisle.

First off, consider the pictures on the packages. Like plastic army men, there’s a series of the same basic poses the underwear model strikes, no matter the brand.

(There’s a job to put on a resume, “I strip down to my freakin’ skin tight, painted on, cotton/spandex briefs and let other folks take photos which then appear in stores around the world.”)

Pose number one is the running pose. It’s a neck to knee picture, and the fellow leans forward, obviously running or fixin’ to run. Looks like what they do is send the guy outside to get the newspaper and tell him,” Don’t worry it’s in a private mailbox,” when actually it’s on a four lane highway.

Pose number two is a guy who rolls with one or two hands on his hip and if the picture had one of those ‘press here’ things like tickle me Elmo does, we’d hear the guy growl, “We know who the man is around HERE, don’t we?”. Let’s call this the Robert Plant, Song Remains the Same, pose and if you’re pushing beyond 50, I figure you know what I’m talking about.

Finally, a standard commercial pose for products of all varieties; the “that was hilarious; and even funnier, look at the boog hanging from his nose!” laughing photo. I think they’re all French underwear models, slumming it for American companies and as the camera shutter clicks, they say, “Oui, I am een my….how you say…tidy whities…and I do not cair who sees me. I am getting…mmmm…good money for zis.”

All this and more closes in on me as I try to casually grab a package…um, let me rephrase…as I try to make a selection but the Underwear Brigade of running, laughing, and thrusting boxers, briefs, boxer-briefs, low rise soldiers flanks me and I surrender with a dive for the pots and pans section.

With a deep sigh, I run a shaking hand through my hair, trying to figure a next step. My phone rings and I see it’s the missus.

“Where are you?”

“At The Store; I need some undies so I came to buy ‘em.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

“What? Just find some….”

“No, no; there will be no “finding” happening today; I’m outta here; the running, laughing, thrusting…I’m surprised I didn’t lose an eye. No ma’am; I don’t know what in the world I was thinking about, but what we’ll do is this: I’ll say hey babe, I need some new drawers can you pick some up for me? And you’ll say…”

She laughs, “Thrusting, eh?”

"O running stream of sparkling joy to be a soaring human boy!” _{Bleak House, Charles Dickens, 1853}

Did you ever notice what a terrific sound a little boy's voice makes? Wouldn’t it be grand to catch it in a bottle and then open as needed?

Tough day? Give the bottom a tap and out shoots that little screech from a poke in the anywhere. They're ticklish all over.

Can’t sleep? Pour a bit out and listen to uncontrollable laughter of two buddies spending the night together, unable to do anything but laugh harder when you holler for them to quiet down and go to sleep. (Eventually you go in the room to quiet them down. Five minutes later, your laughter joins with theirs!)

We could make a million with a bottle of this stuff.

Everything a boy does comes with some sound effect. For no reason at all, he’ll start to make a combination karate chop and whip cracking sound with every step – think of corduroy pants. When his Mom tells him to stop, he'll change the subject and a few minutes later, a new sound effect. She'll laugh at that one as he tells her what it is. 

When you hear him say something sarcastic . . . you're mistaken. Little boys don't do sarcasm. One needs cynicism to do sarcasm, and I can't recall meeting a little boy that knew cynicism. It doesn't come until much later and when it does, you're told to relax, take life slower. Like when you were a boy.

Listen to the words a little boy uses. He doesn't talk; he tries words on for size. Understand he enjoys the pleasure of language; he savors the letters and sounds rolling off his tongue and around his lips. If you overhear him in the bathroom and peek, you'll see him talking in front of the mirror. Just to see what the sounds look like.

A little boy’s voice is a breathy sound, and it warms you up and makes your tummy feel full. It scratches your back and makes you smile and look for something fun to do. It may be raspy, or high pitched, or quiet, but it always wants the world to know who its owner is.

It's usually preceded by a smile; a sincere, unselfishly given smile, and followed by a funny face or a "Hey I got a question," face. It sings constantly, not necessarily recognizable songs, but sort of hums and la-la-la-la's.

It's serious, yet can break into a laugh at any time and usually wants to, because what else is worthwhile, he will wonder, besides fun?

Maybe instead of a bottle, we’ll use a barrel.