I don’t have to wear underwear…

…when I’m in my own home. That’s one of the finest things about being underneath my steeply-pitched roof. I can wear sweatpants with no underwear and feel completely free from social reprisal. This likely means no more to you than a strange feeling in your stomach, but for me it is freedom. Strange though that I find freedom in being locked in my own house. If I could just find a way to go commando while I’m camping or listening to live music…

The point of that little missive…I’m home. South Carolina’s capital city is behind me. Its cavernous, echoey, siren-slobbered streets are a mere ugly memory. The politicoes are hunkered down in their hotel bunkers and finding a new way to get re-elected. The Holiday Inn elevators are finding a way to not work for someone other than me. My connection with my wife is no longer through a satellite and a transparent earpiece. I am home and I’m not wearing underpants.

I now look forward to three days when I may not have to leave Greenville County. Very soon I will go to bed with my wife and pup. I will go out and celebrate Todd’s birthday tomorrow night. I will find a Friday as soon as my bloodshot eyes can see clearly again.

I think, though, that I am gaining weight. My Weight-Test Suit (WTS) seems to be getting tighter in the waist again. I maintain the suit only to remind me that I once was physically proportional. I wore it today and didn’t feel quite right until I came home, showered, and put on some droopy sweat pants.

There is no reason for a young man to put on weight. I have no kids. I have a dog that runs me ragged. And since my wife is a faux-vegetarian, I don’t eat many hamburgers anymore. I make no New Year’s resolutions, but I will continue to fit in my WTS.

I’m almost embarassed to admit this…but I potentially have a high school reunion coming up this summer. I have a deep-seeded fear that I will put on twenty pounds before that time.

I will walk in to that room with my beautiful wife on my arm and Thomas James will look at Ken Bauer and say, “How did Otis get so fat and still snag that lady?”

Bauer will repsond..”Must’ve hit an escort service on the way here from the airport.”

(Note: My wife does not look like a hooker and the preceding comment was only meant to convey the stark difference between my potentially fat ass and the beauty-level of my little woman).

The only solace I can take in the possiblity of putting on Reunion Weight…I may end up wearing sweatpants and no boxers.