Wired Writer

And thou shalt kneel and genuflect at the altar of Joe Boxer

Another backside sighting worthy of blogging:

Yesterday as I was at my desk looking for more ways to fit chocolate into my life, Boss came zooming round the corner.

"Alicia, time for a road trip." He held out two credit cards.

I jumped up and grabbed my pen and pad because: 1)I love road trips and 2)am memory-challenged so I need to write down where I'm going. Let's just say I have had a few small panic attacks behind the wheel because after I finished belting out the words to "Don't Cha" by the PussyCat Dolls or anything by Nickleback, I realized I didn't know why I was in the car or where I needed to go. Temporary episodes, of course, but intense enough to make you want to pack an extra pair of undies in your purse.

"Just take your cell phone and start driving toward Columbus. You might be going to Computer Store 'A' or maybe even Computer Store 'B', we're not sure yet. Just start driving and we'll catch up with you." Boss waived the credit cards in front me, in case I had somehow missed it the first time.

Rock on! An ambiguous road trip! The BEST! I grabbed his two credit cards and headed out the door with a 'Captain, My Captain' salute. "I will be awaiting your further instruction, sir."

Boss rubbed his face tiredly, not amused. "Just go DRIVE," he said, motioning me away.

I made a mental note not to waste time joking with Boss the next time he hands me two credit cards and says "Quick, drive away." Apparently, this must constitute a SERIOUS MOMENT in the office and be respected as such.

20 minutes later, I park outside Computer Store 'A' and beep the office. "I' m here and I'm packing plastic. What do I do now?"

Co-worker G.s' voice came in: "Go inside and ask for Gabe. Introduce yourself and he will know how to help you."

With the 'Mission Impossible' theme playing in my head, I enter the store and ask for Gabe. The sullen and silent CUSTOMER SERVICE clerk 'John' glances at me as if I just told him his shit stinks and then reluctantly points to a far corner of the warehouse-like room we are in. Ah yes, another loyal servant of the public.

After a few moments of searching, I find Gabe and introduce myself. "Yes, I've been waiting for you," he says, smiling.

I nervously glance around, looking for a guy with patch over his eye and a monkey on his shoulder or possibly one of the taller, happier customer service clerks to suddenly pop up out of an aisle, smiling with mouth full of metal shark teeth.

Nothing of the sort. Gabe says he has put aside the battery back up and cables needed for our server upgrade and if I could just stand here for a moment, won't I please wait while he brings it out and rings it up?

Sure, I said, a little relieved. Gabe disappeared among the aisles for a moment and then re-appeared carrying a full load in his arms. "Follow me and we'll check you out," he said, slightly out of breath.

I tee-hee'd a passing naughty thought on the phrase "check you out" and started to follow Gabe. Then I saw it.

Perhaps Gabe had recently lost weight or maybe bought a pair of pants that were slightly too big. Either way, his pants were definitely not cooperating with him on the back end of things.

They loosely drooped over his behind and if Gabe had been going Greek that day, I would have definitely seen the Moon Over His Miami. This was not the case, however, as Gabe walked toward the register. Today, he was not Greek. Today he was Boxer Man.

They were dark red boxers, washed to fine deep dusty rose color and sprouting yellow and white stars all over. They looked soft and well-worn, and a lot like little boys' pajama bottoms.

I had plenty of time to take in the view, but instead looked down at the ground until I finished my trek to the register. All the while an internal debate raged. Do I tell him? Perhaps a small hint? A little nudge and whisper of "Hey, mate, hike up a bit, would ya?"

In the end (pun intended), I decided against it.

No, this was not a case of upbraiding someone on their professional appearance or a quoting chapter highlights from The Book of Appropriate Uses of a Belt. It was more along the lines of religion, really. A moment of reverence to The Traveling Sanctuary of Comfort And Familiarity, so to speak.

In the end (sorry, can't let go of it!), my heart went out to him and his boxers.

It was obvious: something so loved and worn to almost a threadbare state deserved a little respect and quiet reverence from the attending public. :0)

P.S.
And this is the Holy Boxer Dance, Christmas style:
http://www.joeboxer.com/ads/holiday.html

posted by A.M.Adams @ 10/04/2005 09:15:00 AM