Change Looms

For years I insisted that underwear, for men, was unnecessary. No Boxer Short Baron would ever grow fat on my hard-earned dollars. No sir. I thought I'd never be tempted, not by any loom's hedonistic fruits. Not even if spokesman Michael Jordan sheared the sheep personally and then slam-dunked the ball of liberated wool directly into my pants.

Just before the New Year, a simple law of the universe manifested. The law takes the form of a not-so-secret ancient equation:

Christmas + Grandma = Underwear

It had been years since I had last stepped into boxers. What was I thinking all that time? How did I endure the tough texture of denim jeans? When did commando-style become a way of life?

Lesson learned: we sometimes identify too strongly with ways of thinking that we haven't properly... well... thought out. It's too easy to fall into a pattern of behavior without questioning whether the pattern makes any sense whatsoever.

I am humbled—all those uncomfortable years, all that denim, the chafing endured for pride's sake, the awkward two-turn losses at strip poker.

Well, I was wrong.

And besides, a hot girl recently told me she loved guys in boxers.

But, uh. I swear. That had nothing to do with it.