My father lives on the other side of this large state. And he knows nothing about the events of yesterday involving my rescuing a stray pair of men’s underwear, but I’m blaming him anyway.

My dad has an unusual hobby. It isn’t really a hobby. It’s too weird to be a hobby. Let me re-phrase: My dad has this thing that he does.  He picks up stuff he sees on the ground. Not just anything – thankfully – but a lot of weird stuff.  He was thrilled one day to find a woman’s satin and lace camisole in a mall parking lot a couple years ago. That was quite a find. (He didn’t keep it – he artfully draped it across someone’s SUV)

We have joined in, as a family, and at Christmas we gave him a box with our own ‘found items’ and a written history of each treasure. There was a small blue plastic doll shoe – smaller than a Barbie shoe – found in the Target parking lot. There was a set of fake dracula teeth, found by my mother in the library parking lot the week after Halloween. There were other things. It was a unique gift.

As we worked to collect these things, we all got in the habit of looking at the ground and noticing it in a new way. It’s quite common to hear one of the kids yell, “Wait! PawPaw might really like THAT!”  (My kids have learned I do not brake and u-turn for a shredded tire, hubcap, or dirty diaper, regardless of their claims that their grandfather will like it. They’ve also learned I WILL brake and u-turn for quite a lot of other things, though.)

Mike left very early yesterday morning for a quick trip – something he has announced will be necessary every single week for, basically, forever.  Oh. Sidetracked. That was not the original point of that sentence.  ’Kay. Mike left very early yesterday morning for a quick trip – and when the boys and I left the house hours later, we noticed something odd. In the middle of the street, halfway between our driveway and the neighbor’s driveway across the street – was a pair of heathered navy blue men’s underwear.

I drove away from the undies, and left Mike a voicemail:

You know how sometimes weird things can happen early in the morning if you’re not normally an early morning person? Well, there’s a pair of underwear in the middle of the street and it looks EXACTLY like yours. I’m thinking it’s yours. If it’s yours, I feel morally obligated to PICK IT UP. And… how did that happen?

Later, Mike called and asked why I thought it was his underwear.  At this point in time I took a deep breath and held it for a moment before calmly explaining that I am the one who does the laundry and I am quite familiar with the characteristics of his underwear as a result of this role, and am therefore fully qualified for a  drive-by preliminary identification.

“Oh. Well, I don’t think it’s mine.”

“It couldn’t have fallen out of a travel bag or a bag of clothes from the last time you went swimming?”

“Oh…. well…. yeah… maybe.”

“That’s what I thought. I think I should pick it up. I’ll use a stick.”

“Uh? Maybe a bag?”

“Fine. I’ll use a bag.”

So I did. I picked up the heathered navy blue men’s underwear using a plastic bag. And then when I got back to the garage I flipped them around looking at them, still not touching them. And…. then suddenly I wasn’t so sure.  They just didn’t look as familiar as they should have. But that could have been from spending the night on asphalt – I probably don’t look myself after a rough night either.

So I sent a text. To Mike. On the brief weekly business trip:

“Picked up undies. Not sure they’re yours after all. Gross.”

And the return text read:

“I really didn’t think they were.”

So of course I wrote back, “Too bad, they are now!”

But that’s gross and I didn’t mean it. I left them on a trash bag in the garage for Mike to inspect upon his arrival home.

I did not tell the kids not to touch them. It didn’t occur to me to tell the kids not to touch the strange underwear in the garage. And, forgive me if this is sexist, but really? You wouldn’t have to tell GIRLS not to touch the strange underwear in the garage that is sitting on a bag of GARBAGE. They just wouldn’t, yaknow?

And Seth-4yr is not a girl.

He picked up the strange underwear and starts to carry them in the house and I have a full on FIT telling him to drop them, don’t touch them, WHAT DOES HE THINK HE’S DOING?

He freezes in his tracks, gives me a really weird look, and after a long pause, drops them. And then calmly says, “Mom, Dad’s underwear was in the STREET. And you brought them in HERE. And I thought I would bring them in the HOUSE with the OTHER UNDERWEAR.”

And it makes so much sense when you say it like that.

But I told him to go wash his hands with soap anyway and then I chased him with a bottle of hand sanitizer.

Mike is not back yet, so further speculation about the true undie owner is not yet known. I can say that although we do not know our neighbors across the street (thank goodness), they do not seem the type to strip off undies and throw them around.

Hopefully, neither do we.

Although I suppose, that we DO seem the type to go around picking them up. And that is where it’s really good not to care what people think of you, or else blame your innocent father who is hundreds of miles away who probably would have told you not to pick them up in the first place.

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