I am wearing strange-to-me underwear. It’s not my usual loose-fit. It’s not clamping my junk but it’s tighter than usual. But it’s fine. The more interesting detail is how I came into possession of a set of three unexpected underwears. As has happened a number of other times and involving different products, the underpants were misdelivered. I did not recognize this fact until days later, when I opened the package expecting it to be something else. I don’t remember what I thought it was supposed to be but when I produced underwear from the mailer I was surprised, shocked, chagrinned and befuddled. It was supposed to be jelly beans, I remember now. Jelly Belly Sours. Instead I got underwear. Underwear outside the genus and species I would typically consider. My underwear, you’ll be surprised to know, is mostly imperfect. In fact, this unepected delivery of name brand underwear may be the first “perfect” underwear I’ve ever possessed, save, I might assume, for whatever my parents procured for me in the golden days of my youth. No, I buy underwear mostly at dollar shops and bargain bins, where the sad label is virtually always found: “Slightly Imperfect.” Having never pinpointed the actual imperfection in even one pair of underwear that has ever been in my possession I am left with nothing but the stigma of knowing that something is wrong, something is just so slightly wrong with my underwear but the means of informing me of this embittering truth does not include details. Just the label. Not today, though. I behold, and am beheld by, Perfect Underwear.
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