I have a hole in my backside.

Lest you think I’m trying to get all juvenile (as if) in pursuit of virtual
eyeballs or even invoking a euphemism to get away with putting something
dirty on the Interwebs (a first, I’m sure), rest assured my words are meant
at face value.

I honestly, truly have a hole in my backside.
The other day, I slipped out of my beloved khaki shorts — one of a few
beloved, broken-in-just-right pair I own — at bedtime and noticed the seat
had crossed over from merely translucent to wholly hole-y.

It’s not too bad — yet. It’s not indecent or obscene. No, you can’t see
London or France or my Superman Underoos. In fact, someone would have to go
out of his/her way and get really close to my backside to spy the hole, and
not only would I not encourage such behavior, I’d actively discourage it.

But the hole is there, trust me, and I’m not too happy about it.

Worn-out drawers are part of the whole bike scene.

I’ve never heard of anybody wearing out his britches from driving, even
behind the wheel of a seat-of-the-pants sports car, but all that saddle time
has done a number on more than one pair of my below-the-belts.

All my favorite jeans are worn at the seat. I don’t get holes in the knees
or pockets, but I’m retiring them all the time for backside voids.

My wife, bless her heart, has been known to patch my pants to prolong their
lifespan, though I think the gesture is more about her than me. I don’t
think she wants me to have decent dungarees so much as she doesn’t want to
be married to the guy with his, er, behind hanging out.

She usually puts up with my holiness for a week or so, then my trousers go
“missing,” to be replaced by a new pair that has to be broken in.

Man, I hate new pants.

Back to the shorts: It’s not so much the pinhole that worries me. It’s what
it might turn into.

I fear someday I’ll be spinning down Sixth Street, I’ll rise out of the
saddle, crank out a few turns, then settle back — only to snag the hole on
the nose of my saddle.

RRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPP.

Next thing you know, I’m doing a full frontal — or, in this case the full
posterior — for all of the rush-hour traffic to see.

So I guess until this pair of shortpants mysteriously vanishes, I’d better
make sure my undies are clean and befitting a pasty middle-aged guy. I’ll
have to save the Underoos for special occasions.