I Don’t Wear Panties!!!!

Let’s be clear, guys call their undergarments ‘underwear’ and the girls call their under things ‘bra and panties.’ The terms ‘underwear’ and ‘panties’ alone imply the gender of the underwear without the need for further explanation. You see, a boy mom (defined: a woman with a husband and only boys) can live a life free of humiliation because her kids will say, “that’s mom’s underwear.” Not a problem. However, the reverse does not work, and a girl dad has to bear the shame of everyone in the house saying, “those are dad’s panties.” This is neither workable nor tolerable. Call them boxers or underwear, but please don’t call them panties. I don’t wear panties.

You see, living in a girl house I am regularly forced to take big hits for the team. Let’s start with the amount of toilet paper I have to buy. Prior to marriage, a 4-pack of toilet paper would last almost three months (without a girlfriend, of course). After marriage and girls, that same 4-pack will last us a couple of days, and anything less than 2-ply will incite a riot.

Second, let’s talk soap. In my house, the femmes require a cornucopia of soaps, shampoos, bath salts, bath oils, bubble bath, sugar scrubs, bath bombs and other potions of various qualities and fragrances. There isn’t enough room around the rim of the tub to hold all of this stuff, so I have to buy a special holder for it that attaches to the wall. For me, I have one bar of soap and one bottle of shampoo. I share my stuff with the dog because my roommates like to bathe the dog in my shower (they don’t want dog hair in their bath tubs) and use my stuff. As a result, there is dog hair on my soap, and I usually smell like a gardenia because all my shampoo got used on the dog. And while we are on the topic of showers, let me just say that even though I have installed the largest residential hot water heater known to man, after 3 baths happen – a hot shower does not. Again, I did not know that women prefer baths over showers by such a wide margin until long after the fact.

And if that isn’t enough, I have even succumbed to sitting down on my visits to the WC. I have learned that the fastest way to infuriate a woman (regardless of age) is to leave the seat different than how you found it – up or less than perfectly dry. I thought I was the only guy who did this, but I have talked to other girl dads who do the same in the name of peace. Boy moms get their own bathroom. Girl dads must adapt or die.

So, after all of this blunt force trauma to my fragile male ego, I have to draw the line. When the girls were little and asked, “Daddy, are these your panties?” It was awkwardly cute. Some years have passed, and I thought we had finally straightened this thing out until the other day when my wife called down to the girls and asked, “Would one of you please bring up that hamper full of clean clothes? Your dad needs some fresh panties.” My response, “Et tu, Brute?” So,you may call my stuff underwear, underpants, boxers or whatever, but you may not call them panties. My man card is already in jeopardy, so the last thing I need on poker night is for one of the girls to announce in front of all my friends,”I just folded your panties and put them in your drawer for you.”
© Johnny Hea – 2011 All Rights Reserved