One morning last week, as he was dressing in his walk-in closet (I know, don’t ask), I noticed that an actual black rubber strip was exposed at the waistband of my husband’s favorite red and blue paisley underpants.  His favorite briefs were literally falling apart. This presented, not for the first time, a tricky situation for a long married couple.  Do I mention his secret shoddiness and risk sounding sanctimonious and judgmental? Or do I keep mum and remain offended by his patent disregard for my sensibilities? I decided that I had to say something and tried to make it helpful.

“Darling, would you like me to discard those pairs that are showing a bit of age?

“Absolutely not,” he said. “Who cares? Who sees?”

Well, I do, for one.  I held my tongue until I tasted blood. He was, after all, just being his authentic self and I my critical self.

When is it, exactly, that we get too mature and above it all to care about the state of our unmentionables?

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