I used this bin when I was moving across country, precariously stuffing all my possessions into whatever packing bins I could before beginning my ultimate cannonball run. I wrote the contents of each bin on the upper left-hand corner, and now that I use this as my hamper "undies" always stands out to me.
I often wonder why this one item always jumps off the plastic so. I suppose because it's such a vulnerable way to say underwear. "Underwear" implies the "undermost layer of my wearings". "Undies" implies "The undermost layer of my wearings that my mom still washes and folds for me". "Undies" implies "Don't forget your toothbrush and undies at Marcus's house again", if I was a child and leaving for a sleep-over and ever had a friend named Marcus. "Undies"is my inner 7-year-old getting ready for his big drive and that's just what my outer 26-year-old must have thought when he wrote it on this bin so long ago.
But I'm older now. I'm almost 30 and have a nice collection of underwear, most of which doesn't embarrass me when someone sees inside of them. Like most "Men" I have a nice big bed, carpets under my feet and "underwear" covering my vulnerable genitalia and if you asked me to show you my "undies" I wouldn't know where to point you.
But for the one moment where I open the dryer and smoosh my hot laundry against my face I know exactly where my undies are, I'm wearing them. For that one moment, blankets and towels warming my skin sucking me deep into my childhood, I'm on my way to Marcus's house and even though I still never had a friend named Marcus all the warmpth of a Mothers kiss radiates through my hot clean laundry. And into the bin underneath me it falls, and is capped, and on the hand-cart it looks up at me and reminds me that while I might be a man now, I'm always going to be wearing undies.
And that's just fine with both of us.
