take my boxers, please

Time for another give-away. Only this time I won't be so cocky and think y'all tune in every 12 hours - so, if you want my shorts, you have until Friday to tell me why I should give 'em to you. If more than one guy writes in, then I'll have to actually read your email and judge you, er, the email, on creativity, penmanship, humour (but none of that English toilet humour, OK?), patheticness, or whatever just grabs me that day.

Here's the background: these 2 Banana Republic boxers (100% coton, size small) were a Christmas present from some years ago. I loved them. They remind me of what is probably the best Christmas I ever had, and therefore, make me sad and irritable just thinking about it now. Many many years ago, in a land far away, I had a boyfriend. Not just any boyfriend, but a man who's aroma made me weak-kneed, who's patches of shoulder hair stopped my breathing, who's blue eyes and fuzzy face made me forget everything that sucked in the world (except me, of course, since I really really liked suc.... nevermind), in short - I thought he was THE ONE. Like any good relationship, there were problems. I won't go into that, but we were actually getting back together as Christmas was approaching. I was a bit nervous, not knowing what we'd do about the holiday, but he surprised me and suggested I stay in town (I usually went home to my family in Chicago) and we spend Christmas together. Like any romantic fool, I took this as a very very good sign. Meahwhile, i got into an accident with a taxi (it hit my bike, arm in sling...) which I thought might derail our plans to stay in and make a big meal together. No, he insisted on me shopping with him 2 nights before, preparing elaborate lists of ingredients which I never even knew he could cook, and he did all the work. We were to get together the night before, me bringing over the last bits of stuff we needed to make a big dinner and a great day. I baked cookies. I sat on this floor, in my kitchen, my fractured arm securely holding the bowl while the other arm mixed, making a batch of fresh chocolate chip cookies, cookies he always loved. That night he finished putting up lights and pine branches, playing bad Christmas music and dancing and giggling like a little boy. We had great sex, somehow, even with me rather immobile, falling asleep all sticky, furry bodies clinging, his wonderful snoring in my ear, my head on his chest.

In the middle of the night I woke up, and had an idea. I hadn't told him I baked, just stuck the tupperware deep down in my bag. So I got up, put the presents I bought for him under the Christmas display he set up with lights and a huge vase of pine branches, then to the kitchen. I grabbed a small vintage plate from his cupboard, and grabbed a glass and half filled it with milk. Just to be silly, I left the plate of cookies (one half-eaten) and glass of milk on the dining room table, and crawled back into bed.

Christmas morning, he woke up first, and I could feel his body disengage from mine. The sound of him in the bathroom, then in the kitchen, and soon the aroma of coffee made it's way into the bedroom. I could hear him walking around his apartment, then I heard a laugh. He suddenly ran into the bedroom, kissed my face with his scruffy face, and exclaimed with the most adorable boyish giggle: "Santa came! Santa came!"

indeed.

We lasted a few more months. The boxers were among several gifts from him that day. They are actually more his style - plaid - and therefore made them even more enjoyable to wear. But, after the break-up (another story, another time) they've been sitting at the bottom of the underwear pile, occasionally staring me in the face and taunting me with the wonderful circumstances of how they came into my possession, reminding me of the man who is no longer in my life in any capacity, and, of course, being the last relationship, digging at me a bit harder than most memories. So, I think It's time they found a new home.