Robyn is having trouble keeping up with her wifely duties.
My husband has a problem . . . down there.
Something unsettling is happening in his pants, although—let’s face it—equipment is bound to malfunction with age. And that’s perfectly okay; we all expect it to happen eventually. But in this case, there’s really no excuse I can think of for things to keep getting so worn out this quickly.
I find the evidence of his pant-ular mishaps in a special pile in the laundry room because, for some reason, it falls to me to patch up the problem.
See, my husband suffers from a condition I like to call Premature Crotch Blowout.
It’s exactly as unsexy as it sounds.
That’s right, my husband is a chronic crotch-seam ripper. It happens whether they’re old or brand new, grungy gardening pants or dress slacks, khakis or PJ bottoms. Inevitably, he’ll end up with a wide-open window to his willy, split from the tip of the twig to the bottom of the berries.
Naturally he swears it happens because his macho member is just too virile, as if his man-meat Hulks out and shreds his shorts in a testosterone-y attempt to escape the unfair restrictions imposed by clothing on his bulging muscle.
I’d like to take credit myself, but I just can’t believe that my womanliness alone is enough to inspire his loins to burst through the neatly-serged seams with the wild enthusiasm of the Kool-Aid Man, calling out an oddly suggestive, “Oh, yeahhhhh!”
My actual theory is that the extra wear and tear on his threadbare bottoms is caused by the common male habit of excessively manhandling his own manhood. He, on the other hand, maintains that his pubic parts are being put out in public thanks to legit activity, like overzealous roundhouse kicks or thrust-squats or something. You know, like one does.
I’ll go ahead and let you guess whether the groin grabbing or kickboxing is more realistic.
In any case, I end up zig-zag stitching his artificially enlarged zipper flap, my sad sewing skills leaving him with an unattractive collection of Franken-fly pants in thread that clashes with the fabric, because do you have any idea what a pain it is to swap out spools and bobbins every time Hairy Poppins wants to play peek-a-boo in his britches?
It happens with what I consider to be an abnormal frequency, so I wanted to reach out to you ladies—is my husband the only one? Is there something we’re doing wrong? (I’m right about the fig fondling, aren’t I?) Please tell me you have a solution, because frankly, I’m sick of his crotch getting “tore up” this often by anything other than me.