The Boxer Rebellion

The other evening, I had made a nice dinner, set the table and called Joe in to eat. All was good. Enjoying each other’s company over a tasty, home-cooked dinner, Joe got up to get something to drink. As he walked across the kitchen, I glanced over, thought to myself “Oh NO he didn’t!” and looked back. Sure enough, he was walking around in his underwear.

“You did not sit at this table, eating dinner in your UNDERWEAR did you?”

Looking over at me innocently, butt pointing out as his upper body was leaning into the fridge, poking around for a soda, he simply said, “Yeah? So what’s the big deal?”

Now, Joe is usually pretty well mannered and his reaction was pretty surprising. “It’s gross. You can’t sit at the table and eat your dinner in your underwear. Go put something on!”

“Why? It’s just boxer shorts. It’s like I’m wearing shorts anyway. What’s the big deal? It’s not like I’m naked or something,” he muttered with a shrug, carrying a bottle of Diet Coke over to the counter. Clattering around the cabinet, grabbing a glass he continued, “Besides, it’s hot…”

I have to admit, years ago, in my college days and shortly thereafter, I would be in the exact same position, only I’d probably have defended myself for having been naked at the table… and hung-over… and lazy… and not just a little smelly. But we’re both 39, we’re supposed to be civil. We’re supposed to have manners. We’re supposed to eat like adults and have adult conversation, ask each other how their day was, talk politics, comment on current events, all while we’re fully dressed IF we’re sitting at the kitchen table over dinner.

“Go put some pants on before you sit down.”

“But it’s hot.”

“Put on something.”

“I’m hot and it’s muggy.”

“Then put on some shorts.”

“But I’m comfortable.”

Leaning over, taking his plate, I stood up and said, “Cover yourself up. I don’t wanna eat dinner and wonder if your boys are gonna fall out. Do it or don’t eat.”

With a huge theatrical sigh, Joe strolled out of the kitchen. From the bedroom, I heard him muttering about being hot and sweaty and that his boys weren’t going anywhere, that it’s not like we were in a restaurant, that it was just the two of us so no big, that I had a problem with his comfort. I heard drawers opening and closing, the closet door being slid open and shut. And the entire time, the muttering continued.

Shortly after, Joe strolled back into the kitchen, fully dressed, and once again sat at the kitchen table. Grinning at me, smile stretched ear to ear, he couldn’t resist, “Happy now?”

Grumbling, I just ate my dinner.

Now, you’d think that would be the end of it, with no risk of inappropriate boxer wearing, right? Wrong. A few days later, I was running a bit late at work, so I rushed home. Joe usually walks the dog while I made dinner, but tonight, I’d promised to do both since he had a ton of work to do.

The day had been sweltering; the subway air-conditioning wasn’t working so I was soaked through with sweat. The moment I walked in to the apartment, there was Bill doing the doggie “Googily moogily man, I have to pee!” dance. Because I was so sweaty and miserable, I turned on the air-conditioning, walked into the bedroom and stripped with the intent of changing into a pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt. No way could I bear going for a walk in long pants and dress shirt.

Seeing Bill in all his distress and feeling bad for delaying him his evening constitutional for two minutes, I hustled over to the front door, slipped his leash on, grabbed a bag for his poop, slipped on my flip flops, and we were off. Well, Bill was. He bolted out and did his business that very second right on the sidewalk outside our apartment. He usually walks for a minute or two before he does that so this told me he really, really had to go pretty badly. My guilt led me to commit to myself that I’d take the little guy for a longer walk than usual. What the heck, Joe was working a little late, the apartment air-conditioning had still yet to cool off the place, and we were ordering in dinner anyway. I had the time so off we went for Bill’s evening walk.

Bill was ecstatic, wandering the streets of our neighborhood, sniffing his favorite spots, trying to attack any cats in sight, flying into a rage at any squirrel that crossed his path. Best of all, he had the chance to say a doggie “howdy” to the people in the area that he knew. His favorite pastime is to spot a neighbor, casually stroll up to them, sniff their leg and glare at them until he got a scratch behind his ear. It’s actually because of Bill that Joe and I know so many neighbors. Typically, in New York, most people just give you a polite nod and small smile as they walk on by to wherever they’re going. But if you have a friendly dog, everyone knows the dog and you start chatting, you inevitably get to know a lot of folks, whether you want to or not.

So our walk was a bit longer than normal because Bill had a number of people to greet. He was in his element, strolling along, enjoying himself tremendously. Looking at my watch, I realized that Joe was likely going to be home any moment so we starting ambling our way down the street with the intent of giving him a hearty hello as a surprise. Sure enough, Bill spotted Joe before I did, just as we turned the corner.

Normally, Bill is a good dog and doesn’t pull at his leash, unless he sees one of us on the street when he’s walked by the other. Then all hell breaks loose and he absolutely must reach the other. And he won’t take “no” for an answer, or in this case, “Bill, heel… Bill, HEEL… Bill, quit it… stop… NO NO NO NO NO!” That said, I was yanked down the sidewalk, Joe hunckered down on one knee about 50 yards away, watching the tug of war in action before him, Bill straining and making gack noises, trying to get closer.

As we got closer, I saw Joe’s huge, very amused smile falter a bit. Standing, he lost his smile completely, replacing it was utter confusion. This look puzzled me a bit but I figured he’d tell me when we met up. Bill, tugging without mercy, kept gacking and snorting, demanding that I hurry up. As I got still closer to Joe, his look of confusion was soon replaced with a smirk, then a grin, then a hand covering his face. I was dying to know what was so funny, figuring it was simply because Bill and I painted an amusing picture for him.

Reaching him, I said, “What’s so funny?”

Unable to talk, Joe simply burst out with loud peals of laughter, “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean ‘what are you doing’? I’m walking Bill. What do you think?” Blinking with confusion, I looked around, wondering what the heck Joe was up to.

“No… I mean… Oh-my-God… you have no idea, do you?” With that, Joe was absolutely screaming with laughter, holding his head with one hand and his stomach with the other. “How long have you been walking Bill?”

“Dunno. About 30 minutes or so… Why? And why are you laughing? What’s so funny? What? Do I have a boogie?” Wiping my nose self consciously, checking to see if I had a bat in the cave. “Would you tell me what’s so funny?”

“Look at yourself. Just look down and look at yourself. PLEASE!” Was all Joe could choke out while flailing his hands at me.

Very confused, I looked down. Flip flops – check. Legs – yup, still got ‘em. Check. T-shirt. Check. Shorts… shorts… NO SHORTS! Only BOXERS! I was wearing a t-shirt, flips flops and underwear and I walked the entire neighborhood and no one said a thing! OHMYGOD!

I threw Bill’s leash at Joe and ran like the wind… ran like the very Devil was after me… ran like my butt was on fire… and ran down the street, flip flopping as fast as I could, fumbled with the door and slammed it shut behind me. All the way, I could hear Joe laughing and laughing and laughing. What was Joe’s first comment when he entered the apartment? “I’m going to sit at the kitchen table and eat dinner… in my underwear and there’s nothing you can say to stop me.”

So next time you take the dog for a walk, make sure you have everything with you that you might need. And I mean EVERYTHING.