I pulled open my underwear drawer this morning and ran into a serious problem.

I try to match my clothes.  My wife taught me that after I retired from the Army.  In the Army you never have to worry about what to wear.  It's always the same.  After I retired, getting dressed became a real problem.  So, my wife taught me.

Underwear, though, shouldn't be a problem - right?  Noone sees them.  It doesn't matter if they don't match the brown shirt and the brown socks - right?  Well, it does to me.  Call it a fetish, call it a foible, call it compulsive disorder; hell, call it want you want, I had a thing about matching clothes - to include underwear.

My problem, this morning, was that I planned to wear a black shirt, white Dockers, black socks and shoes.  I couldn't find any of my black underwear.

I didn't want to wake up my wife but, I was running out of time.

"Schatz, hey, Schatzie - wake up!  I can't find any of my black underwear!"

"Huh, wha...what?"

I don't know why she can't wake up instantly alert, like most people.  I had a problem and I didn't have time to waste on her morning wake-up routine.

"Black...schwartz...underwear...unterhosen!"

"Arrrghh."  She rolled over and pulled a pillow over her head.

There was nothing to do but change my clothes plans.  I yanked a brown shirt from the closet, snatched a pair of brown socks from the next to bottom drawer of the dresser and threw shoes all over the closet until I found some brown ones.

Back at the underwear drawer I couldn't find any brown underwear, either!  Damn, I should've checked that first.