Why I don't hang my underpants outside

One garment that I do not attempt to dry outside is my underpants. It is not because I am scared of someone stealing them. I swear I don’t wear golden fabric underwear. Modestly I wear mostly from Jockeys – they are comfortable and last pretty long.

I live in a clustered housing colony where I get to see every day the fanciful shirts, pants, bras and underpants hanging in every porch of the house. I have acquainted with the colors and fabric of the clothes that distinguish from men and women. I have come to know that most men wear ash colored underpants and a few black. Its counterparts are mostly pink and some red. There is yet another distinction of fairness touched upon on pinkies and reds from the ashes and blacks by offering silky threads as their wearers’ skin. But I am always taken aback by their confidence to hang them outside unlike my few ashes and blacks that have never breathed the air or seen the sun. As much as I have the capacity to draw many opinions just from the sights of them, I stick here to why I don’t attempt to dry my own tiny clothes outside. That way I maintain some form of decency to myself and show some respect to others. However, it is not that I have not tried to hang my underwear in all this time. One fine Saturday, I slotted it in between my two big linens and went out for a long drive away from my home. I can still remember experiencing some sense of achievement in doing it so – not the long drive but from hanging the V shaped garment in the sun.

As unpredictable as the summer season, it started to rain and then I panicked. I thought of my bed sheets and towels getting soaked just as when they were about to get dried up. But in the clustered colony where I live have many kind-hearted aunties who for many times had taken my clothes to safety. I was relieved with the thought. I continued my journey. It was raining cats and dogs.

The sun had already set when I opened the main door of my house. I did not get in. I took three steps backwards and craned my neck to see my clothes gone from the rope. All the clothes have reached to safety except those belonged to me. I went in and sat on the dining chair, the nearest I could find to ease my declining mood.

My neighbor aunties did not do me the favor. They failed to take my clothes off the slack. But I knew they must have tried. They are all kind-hearted aunties. I came to the conclusion that the fate of my important linens were doomed all due to my tiny underwear that I had slotted in. From there on, I make sure my underpants of whatever the colors – ashes or blacks, do not see the light of the sun or breathe fresh air of any season of the year. They chose the fate by themselves to remain inside the house taking forever before they get ready to come to my skin.

Happy Underwear. I mean Happy New Year.