When fellows get to

be a certain age they blimp out

their middles, got no hips, no rump, just

plump. Them poor

hobblies wobble to the mailbox every morning

desperately clutching waistbands hoping their

Trousers will not plummet down to white hairy fairy

ankles. So when my husband hears

an old guy complain about droopy

drawers he exclaims, what you need are suspenders,

and he detaches his own and hands them over. The fellow

puts them on, clipping the ends smartly to his belt,

rolls both shoulders till the straps are comfortable, sighs with

relief secure from embarrassment and

gratefully struts like a smugful peacock,

insular and svelte.