Going Commando

“Stop right there, mister.”

Wilkins has his hand on the doorknob, and I know the quick calculation that is raging in his head. Should he run outside and claim waxy ear buildup, or turn around and face the music?

He takes a deep breath and turns. 

“Well?” I say. Then I just stare at him.

His shoulders slump. “Are you serious? I’m just going out to play.”

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“Fine!”  Then he plods back toward his bedroom as he mutters, “Underwear is such a waste of time.”

I have to constantly check the twins before I let them out of the house as they are fond of going “commando”, or sans undergarments. This is not a comfort issue or a personal statement. They simply don’t like having to go through the whole process of securing a pair of underwear that is their own and putting it on.

When they were six years old, going commando wasn’t that big of a deal. They’re almost eleven now, growing like weeds, and sometimes a lack of underwear can look a tad obscene. Like the time one of them was pitching and nothing was left to the imagination through his skin tight baseball pants.

Jacks, the smaller twin, will sometimes wear a pair of my boxers because he is too lazy to find his own. The underwear, which is way too large for him, will bunch between his shirt and belt line like a ballet tutu. Jacks doesn’t care. He says that technically he is “wearing underwear,” so no one can complain.   

Don’t even get me started on the other twin, Wilkins. We have a hard enough time just getting him to wear something… hell anything. I’m sure there is a shy bone in his body, we just haven’t found it yet.

A few weeks ago my wife and I were hiding in our bedroom. She was doing homework for graduate school. I was pretending to write while playing Solitaire. The twins were taking turns in the shower and I was so focused on listening to see if they actually got in the shower, that I failed to anticipate what would happen next.

One of my daughter’s friends had come by and let herself in.

The water shut off. There was humming. A door opened.

Then there was a shriek. “Oh! My! God! Beetttttthhhh! Your brother is naked! And hideous!”

There was the sound of running feet. Somewhere at the other end of the house, a door opened, then slammed shut.

I could hear Wilkins in the hallway, talking to himself now that he was alone. “It is called a butt cheek, sistah!” That was followed by the unmistakable slap of flesh against flesh as he gave himself a “giddy-up”. Walking down the hall, he yelled, “Anybody know if we got any clean underwear?”

No one responded.

“Nope? Well, that settles it then. Watch out people! This little soldier is going commando!”