Football Pita Underwear

I have to admit that I finally chose this photograph simply because it does not bring to mind any of today’s three words.    I’ve written previously about my complete lack of interest in sports and honestly football is right up there at the top of the list of sports I have no interest whatsoever in .    And today it is not pitas,  the middle eastern pocket breads,  I am thinking of but potatoes.    And the reason I am thinking of potatoes is because Holly Jahangiri has just awarded me her Top Common Tater award.

I honestly have no good excuse whatsoever for neglecting this blog for an entire week.   It was unbearably hot a couple of days,  but that is well past us and I honestly can’t even say way I have dithered and withered and rather died on the vine when it comes to finishing this post.    I have to wonder if perhaps summer time simply demands of one a break with routine.   If perhaps there is something innately compelling about summer vacation which even the most curmudgeonly among us simply can not resist.    It’s not as though I have actually gotten away,  even from my computer during these days I haven’t blogged.     And yet this post remains open in a tab,  ready for me to finish its composition and get on with promoting comments on it.       (I have 1.5 million eaves in the bank just waiting to become mission fodder.)

On the other hand it may be the reason I have avoided this post for so long lies in that final word,  underwear.    I have to confess that I don’t often wear underwear anymore.    From the earliest years of my life I had always worn briefs.    But when I  married my late huzband, Joel,  I was shocked to learn that he flat out did not wear underwear.    It was for him a lifelong rebellion against a year spent at a military school where everything had to be clean and tidy and just so.      And at times I have to admit that having gone about “commando”  made it significantly easier to take advantage of impromptu opportunities for public naughtiness.   But please,   don’t share this secret any further.   I can quite imagine my poor mother’s mortification if I became known as that essayist who admitted he doesn’t wear underwear.

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