For almost every young boy, there is a transition that they make in their life. No, not when their voice starts changing and they begin to shave. I'm talking about when briefs give way to boxers, and a boy becomes a man. Boxers are a real man's underwear. Briefs aren't. Boxer briefs? Uhm.. maybe a man-boy's underwear.
I had to make this transition myself. There was no talk to prepare me. There was no pamphlet handed out at school. There was no Boxer-ed class. I had to walk the road alone. So there I was, in the midst of this tumultuous transition, trying to make sense of who I really was inside.
I was probably ten years old. We were living in our first house in Marietta. One summer morning I was just lazing around the house. It was one of those slow mornings, and the day's agenda was as clear as the summer sky. I lounged around the house in a pair of comfortable boxers and a t-shirt. The house failed to keep my attention and eventually I wandered outside. At this point I'm not quite sure if I was completely aware of the fact that I was still only wearing a t-shirt and boxers. The boxers were so comfortable. The didn't constrict like briefs do. In fact, they just felt like a nice pair of shorts.
So I roamed around my yard. It didn't matter that I was only in my boxers. There was a high enough fence around my yard to shield me from the view of the neighbors and passer-bys. Sure enough, however, I got bored with the yard. What I needed then was something to cure my sweet-tooth.
I was a man of action, and so I acted. I hopped on my bike and made the trip of three blocks to the convenience store on the side of Route 441. After perusing for a while, I made my purchase and returned home with the booty of sweetness. It was then that I finally realized that I was still in my Garfield boxers. Hopefully Marietta enjoyed the show.