And not those belonging to the great pirate of Treasure Island.
The husband owns a pair of long johns that make me shudder in terror. Like much of his favourite clothing they predate the Jurassic era.
I understand that this is a man thing.
Other men have joined the husband in shock and horror at the time I used his 1982 Sex Pistols t-shirt to wash my car.
Or the time I threw out a Batman t-shirt from the late 1970s and replaced it with a new one.
Or when it took three tries to get rid of a pair of boxers that predated our marriage.
They were like boomerang boxers.
They kept coming back. Eventually I put them in the neighbour’s trash bin. That foxed them.
I love new clothes. It appears that most men don’t dislike new clothes, they only love them at the point when their only true purpose in life remains to be a car wash cloth.
Something about softness and comfort that has to with the biodegrading process.
The long johns are pivotal in my battle against the cold. The long johns mean the husband is also feeling the cold bite of winter. Therefore, the long johns are a sign.
I hate those long johns.
I hated them when husband used to wear them under his cycling shorts.
I hate their pristine whiteness, when everything white I own is now a pale shade of pink.
I hate that their mere presence is enough motivation for me to do something about the cold instead of just moaning about it online.
Within seconds of parading in front of me in said Long Johns of Terror, I had put another duvet on the bed and the electric blanket on my side.
Twenty bucks says when I go to bed he’ll be sleeping in my spot.
Most of all I hate that the husband knows this and wears them to assault my sense of style and force me into action.
He wears them to spite me.
I know it and he knows I know it.
Sooner or later, those long johns are going down.
If I have to douse them in petrol and set them alight myself.
PS: The person concerned has expressly given permission for the content of this blog post.