“You need to get some new undergarments,” Cheryl commented as we walked through the Men’s department at Penney’s.
“These briefs will last another year. Don’t you never mind,” I shot back.
“They look like fishnet underwear. How long have you had them, ten years?” she asked, although she knew full well because she was probably the one who bought them.
After considerable grumbling and me being unable to win an argument for the last eight years, we looked through the selections in Men’s underwear.
“None of these look anything like my briefs,” I said.
“They don’t make them with cowboys printed on them anymore,” she wisecracked.
“Look, I don’t know much about the current fashions, but I know what I like.”
I flipped through the packaged styles by various manufacturers. High cut, low cut, boxers, briefs, gym thongs, all in various colors.
“Nope. Nope. Nope. Nothing here that I like.”
“Well, this is all they make in 2024. Pick a style and let’s go.” She sounded a bit testy.
After more considerable grumbling, I chose two bags.
“$25.00 a bag! Are you kidding me? And no cowboys!”
There was a lot to complain about that day.
Something happened when I turned 69 and I of course blame it on the underwear; they don’t stay up.
I never had any problems with underwear until this year and I don’t understand it. As soon as I start doing any manual labor, that is, squatting down and standing up, I can feel the waistband of my non-cowboy briefs sliding down. It is downright irritating!
“I hate this underwear!” I say to Cheryl as I pass her. Then I slip into the back room, reach into the beltline of my jeans to find the elastic band on the briefs and yank them back up. What a time waster.
“Let me spell it out for you, big guy,” Cheryl said at the dinner table. “It’s all about muscle mass. It’s not about you; it’s about every man in their 60s. The muscles in your glutes shrink and your belly grows. There is nothing for the elastic band to sit on anymore.
“Oh please!” I responded in an exaggerated voice as I sucked my gut in.
And then, I noticed one day that not only were my undies dropping, but my pants were dropping too.
I looked at my well-worn belt. The prong was in the same hole as it had been for the last 15 years. Apparently, the belt has stretched, I thought. It was a logical explanation. I’ll just move it up to the next hole.
With considerable sucking in of the gut, I made it. My breathing was more difficult, and I worried about the blood flow to my legs, but I made it, and this kept my pants up for a longer period of time. But then came 2024 when the belt stopped being effective.
“Let’s go to Penney’s,” Cheryl insisted. “I’m tired of my friends seeing the back of your underwear because your pants are dropping to the floor.”
“We are getting different underwear?” I asked.
“Suspenders,” she answered.
And so, 2024 became the year of the Suspenders, which I’m sure is not found on the 12-year Chinese calendar cycle.
I’m sure they will help with my posture since I cannot lean forward or backwards anymore. If I do lean forward, the Suspenders snap me back to attention, much like a self-righting, inflatable clown, punching bag.
Cheryl, ever hounding me, has insisted that I loosen them a bit.
“Nothing says class, like a man with his belt line up at his breast-line. You look like a pair of pants with a hat.”
“Harty, har, har. I could point out a few things about you . . .”
She held up her right pointer finger, aimed it between my eyes and glared a death stare at me without speaking a word.
I felt my underwear waistband lower a few inches and my pants ride up a little higher.
“Perhaps you could help me find some new socks, dear.”
** The title art was provided by Microsoft Designer.
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2 replies on “The Year of the Suspenders”
Yup, I joined the Suspender Surrender Club this year at age 65. I always thought old men wore suspenders because they had some kind of retarded fashion sense–that they came from an era I never knew where suspenders were actually thought to look good. I had no idea it was a matter of geriatric necessity until I hit sixty.
For the past five years, I’ve been putting off the inevitable like it was a colonoscopy. Just like you, I’d tighten my belt until it felt like a corset, and I couldn’t breathe. Eventually, even that didn’t work. So, I just hiked my pants more often and would complain that they don’t make them like they used to–that for some reason the cut now causes every pair to fall off. Eventually, I realized it was the cut of my butt that was making them fall. There was no butt. (I couldn’t see back there, so how would I know? However, over time, the unpadded butt bones that don’t sit so comfortably on bleachers anymore clued me in that something was now missing behind me.)
This year it got bad enough that I had to stop the mower every round to hike my britches up, or I’d be doing the lawn with my pants suddenly choking my knees while the neighbors were watching. The mower, you see, requires one hand on the handlebar to keep running, so the mower shuts off every time I use both hands to hitch my britches. As an alternative, I’d hike them on one side … then, halfway around the lawn, hike them on the other. However, pants don’t hike up that well one side and then the other because the side you don’t lift wants to pull the side you do lift right back down when you let go.
So, I finally broke down and let Erin get me a pair of suspenders, helpful person that she is by making that offer. I hate messing with them. It’s like saddling up a pair of pants. First, laying the pants out on the bed, getting the suspenders turned right and clipping the front pair of straps, then streaming the suspenders out so they have no twists and doubling them back so the ends that cross like an X fit to the back side of the pants to fasten. (God forbid you find out later in the day you’ve been walking around with the logo-stamped leather gusset at the center of the X inside out so it’s against your back so you have to do this all over again.) From there, it’s like climbing on the saddle to put on the pants. First, letting the suspenders flap down to each side, then stepping between them into the pants, then pulling one side up over one shoulder, then up on the other shoulder. Then running your fingers along front and back to make sure they have no twists due to pulling them on wrong. It’s an event.
You might think I could just put my pants on like normal and then lay the suspenders over my shoulders and twist around to clip the back then clip the front by sight; but, no, I don’t twist that nimbly at 65, so that would throw my back out; and my semi-retired gut–the only part of me that is still growing, aside from my ear lobes and nose hairs–doesn’t allow me to see what I’m doing up front either.
After the procedure has been executed, I hate the way they make my back sweat when I’m mowing the lawn as they press the shirt tight to my back. And I hate how they look, except that I’m mowing a lawn, so who cares? It’s not a day for fashion statements. When I’m not doing something that demands both hands, it’s back to the strangulation belt and just hiking my pants up every minute as I walk along. I have, however, astutely avoided the pants-up-to-my-chest, Elmer-Fudd look by having Erin level them out the first time I put them on because she can stand back to see my feet in order to make sure my pants aren’t riding above my ankles.
Finally, until I have to throw the work pants in the wash, they go back in the closet with the suspenders still on them to avoid resaddling next time. That’s a bit like putting the horse back in the stall with the saddle still on to save time the next day, except the pants don’t care.
Hilarious! Good way to keep up sagging pants!