I didn’t bring much with me. Just two duffel bags: one of electronics and one of clothes. So I'm consequently doing laundry once a week. And I hate it. Every opportunity I have to avoid spending a day trying to read the illegible Hebrew instructions on a package of detergent designed to look like a package of chocolate ice cream so that kids will convince their parents to buy it but instead trick me into eating a few spoonfuls causing me to burp up bubbles for the rest of the week, I’ll gladly take. So in order to stop from regularly attending the laundromat, I decided to buy more underwear…
My first stop was the “shook.” For those unfamiliar with the shook, it’s the major outdoor market where everything is cheaper, but at the cost of swarming flies. So I’m not sure why I thought this would be a good place to shop for my underwear. Maybe it’s because there’s something enticing about buying discounted boxers. That with every step you take in this sweltering heat, you feel good knowing that your undercarriage is as Jewish as you are. If I’m going to chintz on my shirts and pants, there’s no reason my undergarments should be left out.
Anyway, upon arriving at the shook, I only found these obnoxious boxers. Really obnoxious. Like tight stretchy boxers with little glistening beads sequenced along the lining. You just, by the way, witnessed the first time I’ve ever used the words “boxers” and “glistening beads sequenced” in the same sentence. But it was only a matter of time in Israel.
I stood at the underwear stand for about 15 minutes staring at my options. The Israelis were yelling at me to buy or move on. But I was weighing out the pros and cons in my head:
Pro -- I wouldn’t have to shop for underwear anymore;
Con -- I would have to say I bargained for underwear.
Pro -- I could get three for $3;
Con -- I would have to wear them.
Pro -- I won’t have to do laundry as often;
Con -- I would have to wash them first.
My final verdict: Yes. This is definitely worth it.
But as I opened my wallet to buy the goods, I was bROke. So it was back to my apartment for some cash, and back to the drawing board.
I decided to check out the mall to see what it had. It would be more expensive than the shook, but at least I wouldn’t have the promise of a musical number from “All That Jazz” occurring in my pants.
I walked in, and had no idea where to even begin. So I stopped to ask the cute barista at The Coffee Bean.
“Eefo underwear?” I asked.
Despite being bROke Hebrew, “Eefo underwear” sounded much cooler than saying, “Excuse me ma’am, but can you please tell me where the ‘Arse’-free underwear shop is?”
She pointed me to the Delta store. It had a shamrock for a logo. Maybe I’d get lucky. I went inside and saw some numbers written on the wall. “A sale?!” I rushed over to the underwear section. I double-checked with three different people to make sure I was in the male underwear section. They laughed but said, Yes. You never can be too sure here.
Anyway, I then found out that it was indeed a sale: Buy one at full price, get the second half off. Of course I jumped at the opportunity to buy two packs of three boxers each. The last two packages at that. I quickly grabbed them. They were my size, pre-packaged and looked like they were of solid color (not sequenced with beads). Good enough for me; I was in and out with no hesitation.
Though, upon arriving home, I wish I hadn’t impulse underwear shopped. I opened the packages and my chin hit the floor. I couldn’t believe it. No description needed, just look at what I bought…
My first reaction was to sue Delta for false advertisement. This wasn’t underwear! This was a Medieval torture device. One of those contraptions that slowly killed you by starting at the testicles. All it was missing were the metal spikes. But I’m sure I could buy those separately at the shook.
The last time I wore anything remotely resembling this strange “underwear” was in 5th grade when I dressed up as Quail Man for Halloween. But even then I was only wearing “whitey-tighteys.” These weren’t “whitey-tighteys.” They were on a whole other level. They were “tighty-tightys”… with a face-lift.
But I could no longer return the tighty-tightys to the store. I probably could have before I did a reenactment of Tom Cruise’s Risky Business dance. But now it was too late. So I was only left with one option: Become an Israeli. I must embrace these undergarments. Show them off whenever and wherever I could: In the mall. On the beach. At the “namal” by the beach. Maybe I’ll even talk to some Israelis about starting a club:
Topic for Week One: Finding a pair in pink.
Topic for Week Two: Stretching in areas densely populated with tourists.
Topic for Week Three: Properly perming your chest hair to accompany your undies.
Now, I try to make my posts have some sort of final message about Israeli culture and lifestyle; a message that connects cultures east and west, all the while trying to bring the content of my posts to a level beyond mediocrity. And this post is no different. So with that said, my important, relevant, insightful message that everyone should take away is this:
Israeli underwear fucking sucks.
As I was walking out of Delta, the cashier had some final words that I didn't remember until now:
“Be careful about how you wash them,” she said. “They tend to shrink.”
I’m never doing laundry again…
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