HERB BENHAM: One man's brief history with his tighty whities
| Monday, Sep 05 2011 02:25 PM
Last Updated Monday, Sep 05 2011 08:34 PM
I went shopping for underwear and found myself stumped.
Rather than a specific size, underwear, like socks, gives you a range: 30 to 34 or 34 to 38.
As most know, the go-to glamorous size for a man is 32. A small waist goes nicely with big shoulders and a 40-coat size.
That’s a nice look but most of us don’t look like that. We have small shoulders and big waists. However, when we shop, the dream returns.
We think, maybe this is the moment. The time when the bad things have shrunk and the good ones have grown. We have become underwear models at last.
I knew this much: If I were to wear a 32, the elastic would act as a tourniquet around my lower extremities and the appendages would blacken and fall off by the end of the day. With 32s, the choice would be between looking good and breathing comfortably. It’s easier to look good when you can breathe.
People with tight underwear have a distant look in their eyes. They want to be somewhere else, preferably dressed in underwear two sizes larger.
I picked up the 30-34 pack. Which size did it favor? Did it tend toward a European 30, smaller and slimmer in my imagination if shoe size was any indication, or was it more of a generous Florida 34?
There is a big difference between a 30 and a 34. About 40 years difference, a marriage, a boatload of oatmeal cookies and a small ocean of red wine.
Providing a range of sizes within one pack is not a good idea because it plays to our vanity. It’s like putting a piece of chocolate cake in front of somebody and asking him not to take a bite. Of course, you’re going to bite and, in this case, be inclined to buy the lower number.
I put down the smaller-size three-pack and picked up the 34-38s. I had an almost physical reaction to the 34-38s. I didn’t mind the 34 part, but the 38 designation was alarming. A 38 is like a steep climb during the Tour de France. You’re almost out of category.
I considered the choices. Forty years ago I was a 32 and now I’m just trying to hang on to my spot on the 34 team, but it’s like holding onto a tree trunk during a tornado.
I’ve spent time on the 36 squad and, once or twice, found myself interviewing for a place on the 38s. Fortunately, they didn’t have an opening, or if they had, it was not for long.
I chose the 30-34 pack. Hard to believe there were three pairs of gray briefs in a pack that small, but there were. Try to stuff three pairs of 38-40s in the same packaging configuration. You might get one in there, maybe.
Lord, the briefs were small, which I discovered the next day when I drew them on. It was like doing the high jump. I wasn’t sure the briefs were going to clear the bar, which in this case, were my thighs.
They were snug around my waist, if you could still call that part of my anatomy my waist. The only way I was able to wear them was to abandon the idea of having them cover the bottom of my stomach and drop them a half-inch south. This avoided the stomach roll that was like a police barrier around a double murder.
The underwear are tight, but I find that if I am willing to breathe out of the side of my mouth, I can make them work.
I’m hanging on. Barely. Now, I’m looking for a nice 40 jacket to complete the outfit.
These are the opinions of Herb Benham, not necessarily those of The Californian. Email him at hbenham@bakersfield.com.
