Old Yarn: The Undergrad’s Underwear

Our latest Old Yarn, Ivy-Style’s new series of anecdotes and reminiscences, was submitted by Chris Hogan, a Washington, DC-based investor relations director who also runs the blog Off the Cuff. To spin an Old Yarn of your own, use the contact button above.

I grew up outside of New Haven in a pretty traditional preppy environment. But how you grow up isn’t always a good predictor of who you will actually become. While I muddled through public high school, my childhood best friend went to The Hopkins School, an exclusive day school founded in 1660.

This was part of his dad’s plan to develop the young boy into a Preppy with a capital P. See, my friend was never interested in the country club life or any of the other tweedy pursuits associated with being an Ivy Leaguer. Still, when he went off to college his dad sent along something like 20 pair of J. Press boxers.

I don’t think he ever took them out of the bag.

Once on his own, my friend promptly started a garage band and became an alt-rocker instead of a doctor or lawyer. His dad worked hard to become an establishment kind of guy, but try as he might to mold his son, my friend just wasn’t interested in that life. I always thought this was ironic as society puts so much emphasis on being born a blue blood, but just because you’re born to it doesn’t mean it’s who you want to be. — CHRIS HOGAN

1 Comment on "Old Yarn: The Undergrad’s Underwear"

  1. I’ll never forget the underwear epiphany I had when I went away to boarding school, back in the 1970s. I arrived at the school, a second tier boys prep school in New England, with a duffle packed with brand new briefs purchased for the upcoming school year. The first time I went to the school’s locker-room I was mortified to learn that every other boy there was sporting boxer briefs. That afternoon as soon as I got back to my dorm (where there was one public phone booth for the entire building that probably had 50 separate rooms in it) I called my mother collect and begged her to send my a dozen pairs of boxers in the next mail. Fortunately she complied, and I’ve been a boxer man ever since…

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