Apparently, there is a story about me floating around that needs some clarification. Pictures have been taken. Social media is involved. I’m afraid that a lot of inaccurate assumptions may have already been drawn about my mental faculties. Cheap jokes have been offered at my expense.

So, let me go back and capture a more complete and truthful version of this story for you before it becomes legend. Misinformation and misunderstood facts can unintentionally ruin a man’s life without so much as a blink of shame from those who leak said story prematurely without approval of the main character.

This is the official rebuttal.

It all began on a hot summer morning, July 1968. I was packing my bag for Scout Camp. Flashlight. Small pillow. Sleeping bag. TP. Soap dish. Mama came and stood in the doorway to my bedroom.

“You got everything?”

“Yes ma’am, I think so.”

“You got plenty of clean underwear?”

“Yes ma’am, pretty sure.”

Mothers are obsessed with underwear, and in particular, clean underwear.

She came over to my bedside and started to pick through my packing job. She double-checked everything so that she could have some peace of mind that her boy was not going to end up on the evening news in dirty underwear.

Her argument was simple. What if the Scout bus ran off the road, into the ditch? What if you bumped your head and had to be taken to the hospital for stitches? What if the news people got wind of it all and showed up in the ER with cameras?

“And there you’d be on TV in a dirty pair of underwear for the whole world to see.”

I never really understood how I was supposed to have “clean” underwear at all times anyway. You know how hard that would be? Even if the bus accident didn’t cause me to have my own accident, I’d still have to have an extra pair of underwear in my pocket, just in case I needed to swap out before the evening news reporter zoomed in on my backside.

“The real tragedy here tonight; a young boy leaves home with dirty underwear.”

I have lived in fear of this particular embarrassment for most of my life. It has made me a very disciplined packer of suitcases, totes, and duffle bags; anything in which I might be putting away clothes for a trip. Underwear is THE priority article of clothing when packing, and I have never, ever, not even once, forgotten this rule.

Until a couple of days ago.

Now before you jump to conclusions and start making commando jokes, hear me out.

I have been responsible for my own underwear for the last 50 years. I buy my own underwear. I wash my own underwear. And most of the time, I know when to change underwear. I’d say that qualifies me as an expert in underwear management.

The one questionable facet of managing my “brief” inventory is the duration of time in which I will keep a pair of underwear in active service. Whereas most women will toss their underdrawer on some more or less regular rotation, replacing worn out pairs with new pairs; men tend to wear their drawers until they physically cannot be worn any longer.

I have shirts that are 30 years old. Some T-shirts are older. I will wear a pair of jeans until the knees fray completely away. As long as it still hangs together, I’ll wear it.

The same goes for underwear, only worse. I have underwear that, by female standards, should have been tossed in the trash a long time ago. But nobody “sees” my underwear, which means that even though the main pant portion is separating from the elastic waist band, there’s still some mileage left. I can wear these for another year.

Marion has recently become concerned about the state of my drawers. She even attempted to help me out by buying some underwear for me.

This made me nervous. I’m pretty particular about picking out my own undergarments. There are certain features and qualities that must be taken into consideration when making decisions that directly affect a man’s personal comfort.

It turns out that Marion forgot one very important feature in the purchase of my new undies. I didn’t discover the flaw, myself, until it was almost too late. I stepped into the men’s room, took care of the prelimaries and . . . things went downhill in a panic from there. My new drawers had no fly opening.

You heard me right. How does anyone overlook this basic feature? Underwear with no fly kinda misses the whole point of the brass zipper. They fit great. The material is comfortable. But they went in the trash can and I went back to my dependable drawer of worn-out securities.

Which brings me to the point of this story.

I’m old enough to know better than to forget my underwear when packing. I have a process. I lay out piles of clothes on the bed where I can see everything. One by one, I’ll check items off my list as they go into the bag. This system has worked flawlessly for years.

Yet, no matter how flawless the system, I almost always have this “feeling” that I’ve forgotten something. You know the feeling I’m talking about. You’ve got the list. You’ve gone over everything a million times. Still, you get that nagging feeling.

The standing joke is this: “Well, if you get there and don’t have it, there’s a Walmart near you.”

I have laid claim to the Walmart rule of travel many times, but I have never had to use it for anything quite so critical.

Which, in my mind, means that there is only one reasonable explanation for why I forgot to pack my underwear. There was another Force at work that day in my bedroom. The Lord himself took one look at my underwear drawer, and said, “Thou needest a new supply.”

I think this offers the best possible explanation. Divine intervention makes complete sense to me. There are too many holes in my underwear to be wholly holy.

I didn’t forget my underwear. I simply fell compliant to a Greater Plan. I needed new boxer briefs. I’m cheap. And this was the one way to force my hand.

On the way down to the fish camp yesterday, we stopped one exit south of I-10 to get lunch and to make a trip to Walmart. I offered to go in alone, but the entire party tagged along for the fun.

“We’ll help you pick them out.”

“No thanks.”

But my protest did not help. Marion promised me that she had put her camera away. She didn’t actually lie. She just got it out again without telling me. I’ve never seen such enthusiasm for underwear shopping.

I do admit that I feel dumb for overlooking the number one packing rule of all time. My mama is covering her face with shame right now. I’m $47 poorer for my mistake.

But on the bright side, I’ve got 12 new pairs of drawers. A good story.

And my “mistake” is covered.