Underwear
My dear friend Jessi told me that sometimes while she was living in New York, instead of doing laundry, she would stop at the drugstore on her walk home from the subway and simply buy a new pack of underwear. I imagined her walking around the city with crisp Fruit of the Looms and their empty packets sprinkled around her bedroom, bills of $5.99 mounting but not as fast as all the small joys she experienced not trudging to the laundromat.
As I did the math on the train home last night, I realized that I, too, was about to join the Jessi Club.
Except I decided to invest, given my current rate of buying new underwear once every five to eight years. In a convenient twist, I got off the train early and walked directly into Bloomingdales using the underground station entrance like a cosmopolitain goddess.
I was not embarrassed that I was shopping for underwear nor worried about being caught looking at images of shirtless men for too long, both memories of adolescent back-to-school shopping that I am happy to report are no longer things.
I was not prepared, however, for the mark-up of designer underwear.
I knew that I would be spending more than $20. I knew that the price would probably be around $25. I knew that if I thought the price should be $25, the real price would be around $30. But as I held up the first 3 pack of men’s boxer briefs, I saw it: $59.95.
I would like to take a moment of silence for all the things one could buy with $59.95.
As if discovering a new universe, I had a field day prancing through the Bloomies men’s underwear section like a field of overpriced daisies, picking each one only to plant it back in its place.
The best, bar none, were the packs of single Versace trunks packaged with an image of a spray-tanned Adonis model in soft technicolor lighting, with no price to be found.
“I’m not buying this, but how much is it?”
He scans the thing.
“Sixty-five.”
In my mind I could only imagine gay men in New York and Italian men in New Jersey considering such a preposterous preposition. Then I questioned how gay men in New York and Italian men in New Jersey could drive an entire market. Then I thought of the Venn diagram of gay men in New York and Italian men in New Jersey, and how the only definitive commonality would be single packs of $65 Versace underwear.
“These are the clothes you wear under your clothes,” I kept mumbling out loud in horror.
I rode the train home in silence, with three pairs of Calvin Klein cotton stretch trunks, and a receipt for $42.50.