12.08.15

Thoughts and Underpants

            “...And then I discover that it’s not on the website. And that this company got sold to another company in Alabama. And that it’s not going to be sold on the website anymore…”

            This is Christmastime in a nutshell.

          “...And THEN the package got lost in the mail! So the guy said he’d substitute it with something else…”

I am half paying attention to my mother’s exasperations. My thoughts are elsewhere. All over the place, actually. It’s funny how they do that. Hundreds of faces flip through my mind like a kineograph. My favorite faces repeat, my least favorite faces last for only an instant. The faces sometimes fade and reappear as places. Places I’ve never been, places that feel and taste wonderful. Places that don’t exist.

            “...So now I have some tea. But not what I wanted.”

I picture scenarios too. Some good, some bad. At night they’re always bad. My mind justifies the bad ones as a kind of preparation, as if imagining a mob of armored killers breaking into my house is going to make me ready for if it occurs in real life. I also imagine the deaths of people I love. I conjure up beautifully written eulogies. I declare them to an audience wearing black and to a coffin covered in roses. Or sometimes I put myself in the coffin, absorbing the crepuscular and bitter air into my skin, hearing the muffled voices of all that is living. I am comfortable here, yet also on edge. Oh, silly you! You’re in the ground. There are no edges there. Just miles and miles of things.

            “Yes or no?”

            And then I snap back into reality.

            “Please? I’d do it myself if I weren’t feeling so sick today.”

            So off I go to T.J. Maxx to pick out boxer briefs for my father.

Shopping at T.J. Maxx is an interesting conundrum. The issue is that there is enough dust to suffocate an elephant, lights that drain all the energy out of your eyeballs, and far, far too much to look at. And for some reason there is always a small child crying. Today he is by the rug display, his mother inspecting a red and green oriental. Fitting for the season, definitely. Of course the little boy does not understand this, he has no clue why he’s spending his Tuesday afternoon in a T.J. Maxx looking at rugs of all things. I feel sorry for him, but I also wish that he’d shut the fuck up.

            I sneeze. And then again. And then a third time.

            Fucking dust.

Some say that it is all part of the experience, which is a statement I hate because you could really say that about anything. Drinking five too many tequila shots in Cancun and having to get your stomach pumped at 4:30 am? It’s all part of the experience, hun. Thinking about all the advil in your closet because he forgot to call? It’s all part of the experience, babe. Getting gangrene and losing a foot in the war? It’s all part of the experience, bud.

            I am cynical as fuck.

            But it’s just the dust, I swear.

Now where the hell is the men’s underwear?

When going to T.J. Maxx you always want to have a purpose because otherwise, you may buy everything.

It’s also good to shop for your opposite gender because then you won’t be tempted to try things on yourself. For females this is more difficult to accomplish in a T.J. Maxx, however, because the second you enter you are immediately surrounded by the Women’s section. AHHH. You’ve just got to be a racehorse. Don’t look left or right. Just gallop down the aisle towards the Men’s underpants. Gallop, gallop, gallop. You’ve got this.

Yes! I have made it. And holy shit, look at all these boxers. And holy shit, feel all these boxers!

            Damn.

My fingers swim through ceruleum blue silk, ivory cotton, forest green modal, indigo acrylic, patterned nylon, patterned EVERYTHING.

Now this is an experience. I get it. Clearly the inventors of the phrase were shopping for men’s underwear at the time.

It is truly incredible that millions of male butts around the world get to drown in such lovely fabrics daily. Seriously. Don’t take them for granted, guys. Your boxers OR your butts.

My father is a size medium. I grab two packages of white, grey, and black boxer briefs, and I swivel around, heading to the register. Mission complete.

            But then I think about the string on my own butt.

            And I think about the comfy boxers in my hands.

            So I stop.

            I turn.

            I walk.

            And I grab a third.