Sometimes my Grunders are fresh.

And sometimes my Grunders are two days in a row.

Sometimes my Grunders find their way into sneaky places, like glove compartments and trashcans.

Sometimes my Grunders depend on my nose to be told whether they’re “passable” or not.

Sometimes my Grunders will hug my ass and thighs tight like an apple in shrink-wrap.

Sometimes my Grunders will be old and shredding and hang down like a plastic shopping bag stretched by a watermelon.

Sometimes my Grunders will make me think of short stories, such as “Grunders Like White Elephants.”

Sometimes my Grunders will make me think of indie band songs, like that song by Spoon called “I Put My Grunders On.”

Sometimes my Grunders, such as when I’m in the 4^th grade, will have “racing stripes,” a cute little name meaning “poop stains.” And sometimes my Grunders with racing stripes will be left at my best friend’s house, and be found by his snotty older sister who will publically ridicule me at school for not wiping thoroughly for the next three years and even years later when I see her I will think about soiled Grunders.

Sometimes my Grunders make me ashamed.

Sometimes my Grunders will make middle school a living hell.

Sometimes my Grunders will be raised high, like beams for a new skyscraper, except they’re pulled up not by a crane but by an older kid, who will test the laws of physics in trying to wrap my Grunders around the backside of my head.

Sometimes my Grunders are “not fitting right in the crotch, Mom.”

Sometimes my Grunders are pulled off awkwardly by a girl you met at the cast party in college and she’s struggling to get them off one leg and you’re thinking maybe Grunders makes her think of her Dad.

Sometimes my Grunders do make me think of my Dad.

Sometimes my Grunders aren’t so serious and just do a little dance.

Sometimes my Grunders are on when I’m lying face-first in bed on hot, July nights.

And then other times, when hot enough, sometimes my Grunders aren’t.

~Dunstan McGill

Photo by Hungry Boy