In retirement, you never know what tomorrow might bring. Maybe a new knee, another tube pushed inside an unsuspecting orifice, perhaps another medical condition you have no control over.

Peripheral neuropathy affects 60% of folks with diabetes while about 20 million total Americans experience the malady. The version of neuropathy that inflicted itself on me isn’t clear. Despite tests for genetic flaws known to lead to the disease proved negative, the doctor blamed my relatives anyway, choosing to label mine family related. As goofy as my brother-in-law is, it’s probably his fault.

Besides balance problems, legs below my knees feel numb. In His infinite wisdom, however, The Almighty granted that I should not have everything below the waist go totally numb, instead assuring pain when I step on a thumb tack or random kernel of dried Rice-O-Roni. This diminished sense of touch provides reason to check if my shoes are on before stepping out of the house.

Sent in search of the carrots, celery and garlic needed for the dinner Rita was planning, I entered the grocery store and grabbed a walker (a.k.a. grocery cart). Taking an immediate right turn I came eyeball to eyeball with rutabaga, kale and jicama, essentially worthless items, before carrots came into view. A strange feeling in my right leg then stopped me. Glancing down, it was obvious that time on the treadmill had finally paid off – with significant hypertrophy of calf muscles. The right leg of my Levis was stretched as tight as a snare drum. Calves of the bicycle rider for Liberty Insurance commercials came to mind. Arnold Schwarzenegger, eat your heart out, I thought. But, wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute. The left pant leg was flopping around like a gunny sack on a flagpole.

Reaching down I felt the Liberty Mutual calf. The muscle wasn’t turgid, but instead as spongey as Square Bob. Something besides me was inside the pant leg. Once my Guinea pig, Squeaky, ran up the same pant leg on different jeans when I was age 10. The visual effect then was much as it was now – except I was pretty sure I’d not encountered any squirrels or Guinea pigs during the drive to the store. I scanned the produce department for anyone else as curious as me about my newly acquired and lop-sided physique. Seeing none, I shook my right leg as if struck by lightning. The calf began a slow migration and approached the shoe. With a couple more shakes, the truth came out.

A light blue material emerged below the cuff of my jeans. Initially it looked to be one of our blue cleaning cloths used at home. It must have found a way into my jeans somehow and only now descended thanks to gravity. With one more shake, an elastic waistband came into view. This confirmed the identity of the mystery cloth; it was the underwear I’d worn the day before. I quickly looked around the store again, hoping no one was in search of carrots, then bent over, grabbed my undies and quickly stuffed them into my coat pocket like nothing had happened.

After parting with $6.37 at the check stand, I headed for the door only to be stopped short. The store’s loss prevention officer said, “Excuse me, I noticed you in the produce isle. You, ah… slipped something into your pocket. I see that pocket there now,” he added, pointing at my jacket. “Looks like it has something in it.nMind if I take a look?”

I reached into the pocket and brought the underwear into plain sight, then offered it to him for closer inspection – probably along with its Essence of Outhouse aroma. The officer placed a cupped hand over his nose, turned his head to the side and muttered, “Thanks. Go on ahead,” then pointed toward the door.

The incident confirmed what I’ve always hoped: excitement in retirement can still have a lot to do with what’s in your pants.

Sommers is a retired Minot orthodontist, past president of the N.D. Dental and Orthodontist Associations, husband, father, grandfather and reluctant diaper changer (not his — grandkids’!)