My parents are getting older.  They're in their sixties now.  While that's still relatively young by today's standards, they can't do things like they used to.

Every time I visit home, one or both of them is hobbling in some new way.  Hips, knees, shoulders, ankles.  Their bodies are slowly falling apart and sometimes, it's all they can do to get through the day without contracting some new ailment or injury.

Last week I was over there watching TV.  I stretched out on the couch while my mom and dad sat in their respective favorite chairs, two high-back red leather recliners.

My friend Jeff and I were heading out for burgers when he pulled the top of his boxers out of his pants and said, "You know how long I've had these?"

Usually when I hear a rhetorical question, I answer with something outlandish.  Like "Gary Oldman."  Or "three".  Or "blue roses."  But this time, Jeff caught me off guard.  I said, "Nope, how long."

"Thirteen years."  He smiled like he'd just learned the next lottery numbers* from a psychic.  *(Net proceeds go to education)

"Thirteen years?" I replied.  I patted him on the back.  "Your girlfriend would be proud."

Jeff, still smiling, said, "I had them before her."