They Have Those Everywhere, Don't They?

               I have a cousin, I won’t say which one, who inadvertently changed the way my family pronounces the word ‘underwear’.  When he was two or three, he was on stage on a Sunday night at the front of Melbourne Baptist Church, singing with his fellow preschoolers because that’s the one time Baptist children are seen and/or heard in church.  At one point, during the performance, he had to participate in a private act and so he turned around facing the back of the stage, believing if he couldn’t see us, we couldn’t see him.   Once he was turned around he began to pick at his butt crack.  The building fairly shook with the suppressed laughter of the entire audience. 

                Afterwards, when his mother asked him why, he said, “My wunnerwear was in my frack.”  Ever since then when I think of or say ‘underwear’, in my head I’m saying ‘wunnerwear’.   And I’ve been thinking about ‘wunnerwear’ a lot lately, because I have been on the hunt for new undergarments.  As you know, you cannot try these items on in the store, so I have been do a somewhat expensive trial and error process looking for something that should be, and once were, ubiquitous – white boxer briefs. 

                You may be thinking, “They have those everywhere, Dustin” and previously I would have believed you, but I have found this to be untrue.  When you want white boxer briefs, you are left to the ridiculous caprices of designers who are trying to out shine Victoria and all her secrets.  I promise you when you go onto Amazon and type in ‘white boxer briefs’, the first thing that pops up is a pair of red boxer briefs.  That makes no sense.  It’s like in ‘Gone with the Wind’; at the beginning of the book, Margaret Mitchell spends three pages going on and on about Scarlett’s green and white dress and green shoes and in the first scene in the movie, she’s wearing red.  Why?

                And I know you’re wondering why someone with an Imelda Marcos-like love of colored chinos would want mundane under garments.  Well, I’ll tell you.  On a band trip to Opryland in 1987, I wore blue underwear with white shorts.  This should have been private information that was pointed out by everyone.  And by everyone, I mean, that one random girl stranger who said, "Nice underwear!" while pointing and laughing.  I ran and hid by the corndog stand because, well, I was shamed and really wanted a corndog. I can assure you that public humiliation was enough to steer me toward a lifelong attachment to under clothes of the purest white.  This is especially important at this time of the year, as I have unleashed the array of pastels and other muted colors from the confines of my Spring/Summer wardrobe storage and I don’t them upstaged by visible drawers, as it were.

                My preferred brand, after several years of trial and error and a significant amount of money, is Tommy John, typically found at Nordstrom Rack.  As I had been unable to find white ones with the right amount of inseam (I like them almost the same as a bike short, at least reaching to mid-thigh), I gave in and went to Flagship Nordstrom begrudgingly willing to pay full price, only to find my color selections limited to black, gray, navy and bright blue.      After trying to find suitable ones in a variety of brands (Calvin, Ralph, Tommy (both Bahama and Hilfiger) and whoever designs Jockey), I was at my wit’s end.  I was driven to mingle amongst the ‘regular people’ and visited the Target feeling assured that those tried and true icons of under garments (Fruit of the Loom and/or Hanes) would be there, reliably boring as always. 

                To my surprise, they were not accommodating either.  They have a wide array or colors and stripes, but the only white offerings were those of the legless tightie whitie variety.  So, I went back to Amazon, and went down a rabbit hole of names and brands with which I had no familiarity.  I bought many pairs and trialed them, spending a month and over $100 trying them out and discarding the ones I didn’t like into the trash bin as you can't offer them to your friends and apparently no one lets you donate underwear at the Goodwill, even if they are new.  I felt wasteful but I am not about to wear underwear where the legs roll up while I’m standing still and/or where my shirttail comes untucked each time I moved so much as arching an eyebrow at some ridiculous person.  Like you do. 

                But fear not, dear readers.  I have found them, the magic wunnerwear!  I haven’t been this excited about undergarments since my mom bought me Incredible Hulk underoos for Christmas in 1970 something.  They are a brand called Victrix and they are (well done me) 70% bamboo and 30% cotton.  They are so soft, the inseam perfect and you couldn’t coax my shirttail out if you had a fruity drink and a sexy wink.  They are luxurious, seriously.  And, I realize they’re made in China and I should be buying American, but since those MAGA hats are made in China, I seem to be ‘on message’ with America, y’all and isn’t that what’s important?

Isaac Mizrahi and Movable Fat

                I was bargain shopping this weekend with my birthday money and I have to put on paper some of my frustrations with men’s fashions.  Everything these days is Slim Fit, Super Slim Fit or Extreme Slim Fit.  Who is the target audience for these clothes?  I can’t even get one of these shirts to button across my chest and it’s not like I’m all bowed up like some dude from the gym.  Or at least the dudes I remember seeing at the gym, the last time I went, which was in 2010.  Oh, like you work out every day. 

                And it’s not like I’m fat.  This is the thinnest I’ve been since I was in utero.  I wear an L in some brands and an XL in others but I cannot get a XXL Hugo Boss to button across my chest.  Its’ called a sternum, people.  It’s a bone.  It’s not going to shrink and it’s not like I can just have it minimized or removed.  I don’t care what you think you read Cher did in the 1980s, sternum shaving is not a thing.

                And some of these designers I get.  Ralph Lauren is short and thin, Tommy Hilfiger is tall and thin and Calvin Klein is skeletal.  I’ve never actually seen a photo of Hugo Boss.  Let me google him.  Okay, Hugo Boss is no longer with us.  He was alive during WWII and may have been a Nazi.  Yikes!  The current designer of the Hugo Boss line is Jason Wu, an irrationally skinny designer whose dress Michelle Obama wore to the first Inaugural Ball.  I didn’t care for the dress myself.  I’m not a fan of a one-shouldered anything.  At least not since Jennifer Beals rocked her sweatshirt in Flashdance and even then it was only because she was a welder like my Dad and I felt an obligation.

                After seeing row upon row of shirts, in patterns and colors I like, only to find they were all slim fit, I was not happy.  And I noticed those I preferred were from two specifically chubby designers, Isaac Mizrahi and Michael Kors.  Micheal Kors I will let slide because (1) he looks downright slippery from far too much fake tan (his complexion is an aggressive hue I call “East Texas Mud Puddle”) and (2) Mr. Kors has shirts in Regular Fit as I have several and I love them.  I’m wearing one as I type; pink windowpane plaid and I receive many compliments each time I wear it, sometimes from other people.

                Mr. Mizrahi, on the other hand, needs to just stop it already.  His chubby butt couldn’t fit into his own shirt and for this he should be punished, but not in some vicious way, like forcing him to wear white denim or watch a “The Bachelor” marathon.  I’m not a barbarian.  I just think he should be forced to wear his own fitted shirts with the gaps between the buttons where his fat would sort of poke out and say “Hi!” much like his bangs do, except not curly.  Does fat curl?  I know fat moves.  Anyone who sat beside me on an airplane at the height of my weight can vouch for the kinetic properties of, at least my, extra pounds.

                Designers are an artistic lot and I understand they want the most attractive canvas for their work.  But who exactly is their target market?  The one pro football player who shops at Macy’s and somehow wants a raspberry gingham dress shirt?  Who is this man?  There are a few extremely well-dressed athletes but I can assure you they are not wearing off-the-rack; most of their clothes are much more high-end.

You know who is actually buying these shirts?  No one, that’s who.  How do I know this?  They are all on the double-clearance shelves in department stores and the triple-dog-dare-you clearance rack at TJ Maxx, which is where I gravitate in any store, y’all (see previous post “Uncle Dusty’s Guide to Fashion”).  I mulled over buying one anyway but I don’t think I have enough ropes and pulleys to get those shirts on my body, at least without assistance and no one wants to come by my apartment to help.  Well, not for the money I’m willing to pay. 

I guess I could go down to the Jack in the Box and find someone to do the work.  I’ve been led to believe there are illegal immigrants who will do the things Americans won’t, so I should be in good shape.   Hmmm, now I’m thinking about this, it would probably end in tears or a fine of some sort because I don’t speak much Spanish and trying to pantomime helping me put on a shirt that’s too tight might be misinterpreted as a proposal less than Christian.  

Maybe I should just stick to buying clothes that fit.  Based on the world around me with their ill-fitting garments, stretched to within a centimeter of their breaking point, this might be considered a particularly un-American proposal.  However, since some of those big girls and dudes might actually read this blog, I guess I'll hush.  And I think that's all I can safely say at this time.