Boxer-briefs.

I'm a boxer-briefs guy at heart, this much I know. Ever since about grade 9, when I had the power to choose my own undergarments, I've gone with boxer-briefs. Mostly, I think this is to do with my involvement in athletics. With the boxer-brief you're getting just the right amount of freedom for your little teammates, while still keep them in check. I haven't always been this way, however. It seems to me that my generation is towards the tail-end of those who were blessed to grow up in tighty-whiteys. It was the golden age of constrictive briefs, and I was a devout believer. Sure, I'd gotten faint whiffs of the scent of change in the air, but those boxer shorts seemed too outrageous to ever catch on. I mean, yeah, they're good for a laugh, with a big smiley-face adorned over the front of your crotch, or made from silk with red hearts all over, but they'd surely never become the mainstream choice for unda'wears. Not by me, anyway. I cherished the comfort of my briefs. Eventually, in about grade 6, I tried boxers for the first time. I was scared. I was not myself. I was a stranger in a foreign land, a land filled with too much movement for my liking at the time. After my initial experience, I was, for a time, too frightened to try them again. The problem at that point was that boxers were what the cool kids were wearing, and it was embarrassing to change for gym class with my T-dubs on. In a decision that can only be described as a stroke of genius, I wore boxers over top of my tizzle-whites. No one was the wiser.