I have 32 pairs of drawers in my drawers. That’s one pair of underwear for every day of the longest months of the year with one pair left over, plus two left over for every day of every month that has 30 days, except February, which has 28, though in leap years it has 29.

I also have 40 pairs of socks (you do the math, I’m exhausted), plus 30 T-shirts, 10 pairs of pajamas, 10 pairs of shorts, 18 sweatshirts, four sweatpants, two dozen long-sleeved and short-sleeved button-down shirts, half a dozen pairs of jeans, a couple of pairs of khakis, four sport jackets and three suits that must date back to the Clinton administration and probably don’t fit anymore.

I mention this because it is time to switch my seasonal wardrobe from spring and summer to fall and winter. But instead of doing that, I have decided to get rid of so many clothes that I should just pile them up and light a match — without, let’s hope, burning the house down.

I’ll start with my underwear, which I always make sure matches whatever I am wearing because: (a) I remember my mother’s admonition to wear clean skivvies in case I am in an accident and (b) I have a fashion plate in my head.

My wife, Sue, can’t believe I do this.

“Who do you think is going to see it?” she asked one day while stuffing a bunch of clean underwear into one of my dresser drawers.

“The whole country,” I replied. “I’m looking to get on the cover of GQ — Geezers’ Quarterly.”

At least my urologist was impressed when I saw him for a checkup.

I was wearing red, white and blue boxers with hearts on them. They matched my red and blue shirt and white shorts.

“I try to be stylish,” I said. “What do you think?”

“Very nice,” he replied. “Now cough.”

On another day, my dermatologist also noticed my fashion choice: green and brown boxers with footballs on them, which matched my green shirt and brown shorts.

“Did you do this on purpose?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a patient who does that,” said the doctor, who was wearing argyle socks.

“I used to wear argyles,” I told him. “One day, a woman at work said to me, ‘I like your socks.’ I looked her in the eye and said, ‘I’m not wearing socks. It’s a skin condition.’ She blanched and backed away.”

“I’ll have to remember that one,” the dermatologist said.

“I wear white socks now,” I said. “They go with my old-guy outfits: T-shirts and shorts when it’s hot and sweatshirts and sweatpants when it’s cold.”

“And your underwear matches whatever you’re wearing?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “If I had my life to live over, I would have started wearing boxer shorts a lot sooner. I could have saved myself thousands of wedgies. Oh, well, you can’t turn back the clock, I guess.”

“Did you used to wear briefs?” the doctor inquired.

“Yes,” I said. “Tighty-whities. For a long time, I sounded like the lead singer in the Vienna Boys’ Choir.”

Now it’s time to take inventory, not only of my underwear, but of my socks, T-shirts and every other article of clothing I own, some of which I have never worn.

“Why don’t you donate some to Goodwill?” Sue asked.

“So I can go Goodwill hunting?” I responded.

She looked like she wanted to stuff me in a bin and take a tax write-off.

“Maybe I should just leave everything out,” I suggested. “You never know what the weather will be anyway.”

“You have too many clothes,” Sue said.

“You buy them for me,” I countered.

“You need to get rid of some,” she said.

“OK,” I conceded. “I’ll start with my underwear. It won’t be a brief encounter, but it could end up being a boxer rebellion.”

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