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Unrealistic Standards? Ever Since Jeremy Allen White’s Photo Shoot, My Partner Expects Me To Wear Underwear

Ever since Jeremy Allen White exposed his Calvin Kleins to the world, the newfound friction between me and my wife has reached its boiling point. Apparently my dangly bits are now chopped liver as she would rather have me shackle my genitals in a cotton prison than perpetuate the free willy-nilly precedent.

It’s important to be cognizant of what is within your control as the world becomes increasingly chaotic. Up until now, I didn’t have to look far—just down. There’s something reassuring about waking up and immediately seeing your junk still attached to your body. If being a little neurotic is a crime, can we at least admit it’s a harmless one? If not, you better bring a cage with those handcuffs because we plan on sharing a cell.

Our marriage had once blossomed on a firm foundation of nonjudgement, warmth, and most importantly: compromise. When I insisted on listening to Kanye despite all the headlines, we settled on nothing after “Life of Pablo.” When I picked up smoking, we met halfway by removing ashtrays from the bedroom. I don’t see any viable solution here, however. I hate boxers, briefs, and the unfathomable hybrid. When the Arctic breeze hits my jeans, I need to feel everything.

A new demand—pardon, “suggestion”—seems to follow whenever Chef Swole pops up on her feed. I have become a subservient yes-man and met every request head-on with a rejuvenated enthusiasm this house hasn’t seen in decades: the toilet seat is down and is staying down, sponges are replaced at a healthy cadence, I actively listen when she speaks, etc. I am doing my best to be the perfect husband in hopes that she simply forgets about the underwear thing. As much as I love her, this is still America, and I’m not letting anybody tell me what I can or can’t do with my genitals.

Everybody has a hill they’re going to die on, but this isn’t mine. I don’t know what my hill is. All I know is when I eventually find it, I am going to climb to the top and promptly die with my package pressed against my jean zipper. I just hope it’s before Season 3 of “The Bear” is released.