A boxer brief

Today I went out for a spot if shopping with Annie. It was something we hadn’t done in a long time, and it was a lot of fun.

“Why don’t we do this more often,” I asked her.

“We don’t usually go to the same stores,” she said.

“True. We have different styles.”

“Remember when Dad used to call me Butch?”

“I would say you earned it, what with the self-inflicted haircut.”

“And the boxers!”

“Oh, man! I remember the boxers. In fact, I remember when you made the conscious decison to wear them. You got in trouble and Mom sent you to your room. You took the time to write her a note: ‘Dear Mom, I want to be a sagger. Please buy me some boxers. Love, Annie.'”

And somehow, that boxer-clad tomboy became a bikini model. Nobody saw that coming.

About Carrie

Writer by day, writer by night. Urban farmer/dog mama/baby mama/bicycle enthusiast/oenophile the rest of the time.
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