4 counties. 7 days. 1 pair of underwear. ExOfficio claims a single pair of its underwear can withstand “17 countries” and “6 weeks.” But can it endure a week’s routine of creekboating, bicycle commutes, and men’s league basketball without getting its tester kicked out of the bed he shares with his dust-sniper wife?

Friday
No unmentionable pleasure compares to the feeling of sliding on a new pair of underwear.
Saturday
In drysuit all day. Woke early to get up to Clearwater Creek in Bellingham. It was low, but fun. Paddled Middle Fork, too. Very sweaty. Home by suppertime.
Sunday
Wife goes fishing on Skykomish River. I take care of 2-year-old daughter all day. Watch some NFL. Before bed, wife says: “Didn’t you wear those underwear yesterday?”
“No,” I said.
Monday (Veteran’s Day)
Paddle Class V Robe Canyon with buddy Rob. Five miles of rapids. Four miles of flatwater. Sweaty. Wife serves homemade chili for supper. Lots of cheese and sour cream.
Tuesday
Ride bike home from work. Cold ride, but 25 minutes of hills drenches me in sweat as usual. Wife fixes homemade pizza for supper. Afterward, head to gym for basketball. Play for two hours. Very sweaty. Watch Law & Order to decompress and air out underwear. Shower. Put underwear back on. Not too bad.
Wednesday
After getting out of bed, wife says, “I know those are the same boxers you wore yesterday.” I tell her I have three pairs of black underwear. “Okay,” she says.
I think she’s onto me.
Thursday
Want to get caught now, like those serial criminals struck with a sudden sense of boredom. After I get out of bed in the morning, I ask wife for back scratch dressed only in underwear. She obliges. But doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe she knows and she’s letting me suffer? After rainy bike ride home from work, 2-year-old daughter is poopy. Wife is cleaning master bathroom. I take off my bike clothes and change daughter’s diaper in only underwear, hoping wife will notice. Doesn’t seem to. So I ask her what she’s doing. Says she’s cleaning bathroom. “It’s disgusting,” she says.
“Looking good,” I say. Then, I flex my bicep in mirror and say, “How am I looking?” Wife says: “Are you ever going to change those underwear? I know you wore them yesterday. And the day before. And the day before.”
I say I have three pair of these.
She says: “No you don’t. I do your laundry. I know what you have.”
I say I washed them yesterday.
“You don’t do laundry.”
I say they’re anti-microbial, odor-resistant. They can be worn in 17 countries, for six weeks.
“That’s disgusting,” she says. “How long have you worn them?”
I tell her today is the seventh-straight day.
“I’m changing the sheets,” she says with a huff of disgust.
Friday
Nothing compares to the unmentionable pleasure of sliding on a pair of clean underwear.