I got some new underwear for Christmas, and I have to tell you, it’s my new best friend. Let me tell you about it.
NOTICE: CREEPY ALERT
I am normally challenged by walking and chewing gum at the same time. Yet, today I shall attempt a feat never before contemplated — to simultaneously put on my new underwear and write an essay for Jerry’s Fractured Humor.
I stick in one leg, and then the other. Ahhh, my underwear is on. Did I mention it’s black and has racing stripes stitched along the sides? I find it supportive, yet, unlike the contract I have with my cell phone carrier, non-binding. I complete my ensemble by pulling on a pair of knee-high support stockings, the kind you see on old men when they cross their legs and their pants are too short. As I pass the bathroom mirror, I conclude I don’t look half-bad for a man of my age. Yet, I’m mindful if a photo of me in my current state hit Facebook, I’d have to kill myself. For the present, I don’t care. I head for the basement. I gird my loins to go boxing.
You heard right – boxing. I’ve met my opponent many times before. He is the king of rope-a-dope. I distract him by asking, “What’s that over there?” Before he knows what happened, I knock him to the concrete floor. But he bounces back as if nothing happened. He taunts me with that stupid grin of is. “Hit me again,” he says. But he’s not actually talking. This is because he isn’t a person. He’s a bear. His name is Yogi Bear, and he’s a children’s pop-up punching bag with sand in his feet.
For about twenty-five years, Yogi had been collecting dust in the basement. He just stood there with Christmas lights wrapped around his neck. We bought him from Toys ‘R Us, hoping our two daughters would hit him instead of each other. We hoped wrong. They grew tired of Yogi after about a day and a half, so I lugged him to the basement. He’s waited there ever since — for his buddy Booboo or to get hit in the chops, which he was born to do.
Dancing in my underwear to the beat of Staying Alive, I weave and dodge against my immobile opponent. I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. I finally have Yogi where I want him. I pummel him in the midsection. I connect with a hay-maker. The back of his head slams against the concrete floor. He jumps up for more. I hit him again; he pops up again. After a minute and a half, I am spent. I can hardly catch my breath or raise my arms. Yogi has won, again.
So why do I box a stupid inflatable bear? Other than I get to prance around in my underwear? I do it because it’s part of my therapy for Parkinson’s. They say defensive boxing helps retain balance, strength, and a high threshold of embarrassment. Not getting hit back also has its plusses.
I was boxing Yogi the other day, and my wife accidentally popped in on me. She said she could not un-see what she had seen. I beg to differ. I envision the day when millions of people will unabashedly join me in the latest fitness craze – Underwear Boxing!
Look for it on an infomercial channel near you.