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!"
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.
"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.