There are things in life we get attached to. As children, often it’s a favourite stuffed toy, or blankie, or cup, or any number of things we grasp to help us cope with all that is new and sometimes terrifying. As we grow older, many of us either grow out of these bonds, or we create new ones which are more age appropriate (although not always, but that’s also okay).
As parents, our attention is shifted to our own children, and the attachments they form. We find it cute, endearing, and frustrating when they lose it (hopefully temporarily). We wash these items, we cherish the moments, and eventually we celebrate when they move on to other things, although always with a little bit of melancholy. Such are the rites of passage in life.
However, as adults, we often form attachments to things that can sometimes cause acrimony. Hockey teams, or any sports team for that matter, can lead us to buy all types of merchandise and turn rooms into shrines. Some people are attached to purses, certain coats, collectibles, even fictional characters in books and movies. Mostly it is harmless. It is often the anchor with which we tether our sanity to, for when the winds and currents threaten to send us down the wrong stream. These attachments can become obsessions which may not be as healthy…..but I will not judge.
Personally, I have an attachment which angers my wife Anne, and is one which apparently is shared by many men, much to the chagrin of their significant others. Mine is ‘comfortable underwear’….I just can’t seem to throw them out.
While getting ready to shower after a long day at work, I was poking around my drawers for a pair. I wear boxer briefs (TMI), and to be honest, I was too lazy to go downstairs and bring up the basket that my wife had folded and I had promised to put away. So naturally, I searched harder rather than do what I was supposed to do. It’s a trait that, while sometimes unsavoury, I think makes me endearing. Anne would argue this point, but this is my belief all the same. And so….back to the hunting. I gave my dresser a thorough ‘pat down’, and found something I thought was long gone: my favourite boxers.
Old Faithful I called them. They started off black, but were now brown-ish due to several failed attempts to wash them with other clothes that shared their pigment with Old Faithful. Comfortable really doesn’t describe them. ‘Heavenly’ is more like it. That they were holier than the Pope is irrelevant. I loved them. And Anne had told me that they spontaneously combusted in the dryer one day due to the fact that the fabric was so thin they just disintegrated.
This was evidently a lie. Here they were, in my hands. But what to do? She obviously had buried them so I wouldn’t find them. So really, shouldn’t I just throw them away? Honour my wife’s good judgement and put them in the garbage so that she was none the wiser?
Hell no!
Like a child who has just found his long-lost Binkie Boo, Old Faithful had made its way back to me! It was destiny. I quickly showered, dried myself thoroughly, and slipped these babies on. Oh. My. God. It was heaven. I looked in the mirror to admire them, and saw that, although they still fit pretty well, I had lost weight, and the gaping holes hither and yon showed a little too much skin. So, I decided that this would be my last time with Old Faithful. A Victory Lap of sorts. I put on sweat pants, a t-shirt, comfortable shoes, dressed warmly, and went out to get the mail. It was going to be a fine evening!
Halfway to the mail box, trouble set in. I felt more than heard a tearing around the waist band. This can’t be good. Well, maybe it was just a little one. A few more steps, now fully committed to retrieving the post, and more movement. Things just weren’t as they should. Old Faithful was starting to separate itself from the waist band. By the time I reached the mailbox, the waistband and Old Faithful had completely parted ways. I stood there, pretending to leaf through the mail, while my neighbour waved, and I waved back. It’s not easy looking nonchalant while your undies are now down like a fallen sail on a sailboat.
I turned around and now attempted to walk normally. It surely must have looked like I needed to go to the bathroom. Or perhaps already had. Walking was difficult, but I held my head high…..Old Faithful’s Victory Lap had run its course, and I would honour them with at least some dignity. Safely inside the house, I went and retrieved a new pair (well, new-ish) and, mumbling words in a semi-formal ceremony, placed Old Faithful where they belonged. It was a solemn moment, one which was broken by a lone coyote baying in the background. And a flock of doves flying overhead. Okay those last two aren’t true. Sorry, got carried away.
So long Old Faithful. At least you didn’t get turned into a rag.
Bill's Musings 