Oh my not another slice of pie! Drove my belly to the deli and then drained the keg dry…
Singin’ I’m gonna complain, before I start to cry… But I’m fine, and I’m not gonna to die.
I come by these moods naturally, as I am my own mother’s son. Grandma Betty always tried to re-mold the world into her own image – and all she ever got for her efforts was frustration. My father, Grandpa Bob was honest to a fault – so much so that most of his dreams became unobtainable. Honesty is no longer revered in the world, and nothing is ever going to go precisely as one might hope. I am my parent’s child feeling the pangs of a late-in-life orphancy.
That’s when the elastic died…
I got up this morning to walk little Winnie to the park so as to beat the torrential rains which were accurately predicted — when half-way to the park both of my sneakers started to eat my socks. That was nothing unusual – it happens all the time. However, from my midsection below my navel there came a snapping-noise like a distant crack of thunder, leaving me with a very odd sensation. No, this time it wasn’t gas – the elastic on my underwear had gasped it’s last breath, and was quietly snuggling it’s way down my lower torso traveling a path into either pant leg. It was a peculiar sensation like feeling naked in public without anyone seeing. I was walking like a person infested with bugs. No one I passed could see my silent cries for help as Winnie peed, while I groped myself behind a tree trying to retrieve my run-away foundations and hoist them well up over my belt. With my dead elastic waistband UP over my belt, I stopped every so often to yank-up my socks only to have them re-eaten by my sneakers. But when I’d bend over to secure my socks, my underwear would take-on a mind of it’s own and head south again. I was as uncomfortable as a hooker with crabs, but reasonably certain no one was paying me any mind.
They haven’t noticed for a while now.
My waistline measurements went in record time from a trim 32” to an appalling 42“ expanse. Age and gravity ganged-up on me very suddenly over the last several EXTREMELY trying years – to epic proportions. Proportions that are now mine for keeps – leaving me with only one option – accept my lot in life as a slightly over-weight, irritable old curmudgeon walking an adorable little dog.
Just then a former paramour who’d once thought I was the handsomest man in the world, went jogging past looking sensational. He was tanned, handsome and fit. For one brief, nasty moment, I took comfort in the thought that he too would one day loose his elasticity. He’d find himself taking blood-pressure meds and joining the wonderful world of erectile dysfunction. But no, I caught myself in-time. He looked vital and full of life as he waived to me during his morning run. I’m sure it never occurred to him my underwear were peeling their way back down around my ankles to where he once preferred them – only this time it was somehow different…
In truth, I was happy for him – men in their late 40’s and early 50‘s are prime-rib by my lights. Before the rain hit, there was that early nostalgic spring scent in the air. I remember when that scent used to compel me to jog in track-shorts and wear my T-shirts a tad too tight to see if I could cause a fender-bender – (I actually did accomplish that once.) I smiled and waived back at my muscular old friend, knowing I haven’t missed a thing. I merely had a moment of jealous longing – not for who I’d once been – but for who I’d once hoped to be. Thinking too much will do that to you.
All of this neurotic self-examination was racing through my mind during a wardrobe malfunction just as the rain started to fall. Wet-fabric doesn’t cling to me quite in the same way it once did. It was my old boyfriend’s turn to look hot as hell, running while glistening with fresh rainfall.
We all get our moment to blossom and bloom. I know it’s up to me to find a new way to glisten and shine. My wet T-shirt days are long gone, but my underwear comes off as easily as it ever did.