Will I ever learn?

My friends say I have OCD. I say I have good housekeeping habits. I have Martha on my side, who do they have? Oscar the Grouch? A place for everything and everything in its place, that’s what I say. I am a bit extreme perhaps but I guess it comes from having worked at the GAP many moons ago.

I have a folding board for my t-shirts, including undershirts. My jeans are all folded the same way – cuff to back pocket – and neatly stacked. My closet has 3 divisions – pants, casual shirts and dress shirts. The hangers all face the same way and the colours start with white on the right, moving through every hue of rainbow and finishing with black on the left.

There are 16 pairs of underwear in their designated drawer. Enough for 2 weeks (my laundry cycle) plus 2 spare – you never know when you might get caught short. There are 14 pairs of Jockey boxer briefs. 7 white. 7 black. They alternate in the drawer – black, white, black, white etc. – that way I never have to mess the rest to get at the pair I need. There is also a pair of square cut jockey shorts, very supportive of my gluteus maximus and the boys. The last pair (if you can call it that) seemed like a good idea when I bought them. And truth be told, the guy on the box was hot. Fine, I admit it; I got sucked in by the advertising. “Gee, if I buy this, I’ll look him.” I am no better than the pot-bellied beer swigging Joe who really believes Coors Light girls are after him.

Anyway – it’s a thong. Yes. A thong. And let me tell you, it’s a lesson I never learn. If my laundry gets ahead of me, or I have an unfortunate prairie-dog incident, I have to turn to my two back-ups and today was one of those days. The last pair in the drawer – the thong. When I put it on it feels great. There is a sense of freedom and adventure. Not as dirty as commando – dead sexy in jeans by the way – but you still feel like you are getting away with something. No one has any idea how close to your butt they really are. After an hour however, I want to rip that sucker off faster than a Chippendale. I make repeated trips to the bathroom for adjustments.

Of course when I get to the washroom there is no one there so I saddle up to a urinal as that stall latch it too much fuss. Not to mention the germs - it is flu season. Murphy’s law dictates however that just as my elbow reaches my fly and my fingers have hooked the offending garment, someone walks in. What to do? Finish of course. Can’t hurt my reputation that I have THAT much to tuck. Hee hee.

Thankfully my friend Sharron was there to be sympathetic to my pain. That is after she fell against the wall laughing when I told her I wear a thong. Her little “how’s the flossing coming” e-mails but a smile on my face and we both had a good chuckle. I write this as a reminder to myself and a warning to others – thongs are not good things!