The Misguided Underpants

                                                               The Misguided Underpants

                                                                           Linni Kennedy

 

I once dated an older man.  John Chryn was 16, I was 12.  One night at choir practice, I sensed his blue eyes appraising me from over the top of his red hymnal. It was spring in 1955 and we were working on, “Christ is Risen” for Easter Sunday.  When practice was over, John positioned himself next to me and we both smiled at the floor.

          “Can I walk you home from choir practice sometime?” he asked. 

“I’ll ask my father,” I said and ran away.

Actually, my Greek father didn’t allow me to date.  Or go steady.  Or wear lipstick, make up, or to peroxide my bangs blonde, which was high fashion in Middletown, New York at that time. No way was he going to let a Boy walk me home.  But I asked him anyway.

“Who is this boy?”

“John Chryn.”

“Oh the dentist’s son.”

“Yeah.”  Everybody in town went to see Dr. Chryn.

“Don’t say yeah, says yes.”

 “Yes.”

“His mother is quite active in the church too, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”  Mrs. Chryn was always whizzing around the church, doing things with altar cloths and coffee urns.

“How old is he?  Isn’t he in high school, for Christ’s sake?”

“Yeah. I mean yes. He’s 16.”

“He’s a big fellow, isn’t he?”

John was tall and somewhat chubby.

“Yes.”

“You know it might not be a bad idea for him to walk you home. He’s a big enough galoot so no one will give you any trouble, and I won’t have to get in the car and pick you up.”

When I walked out of choir practice the next week with John, I felt like a queen. He was wearing his sports sweater, and his gold class ring.  He had a blonde crew cut and so what if he was a little chubby.  The sweater sort of covered some of it.

When we were about half way home, that first evening, he took my hand in his.  His fingers felt so delicious on my naked fingers. He rubbed my palm with his thumb.  I thought I was going to faint.  I felt myself floating away, in the warm spring air.  The streets were empty and we only had to worry about my third grade teacher, whose house we’d have to pass by.  Later, he came to hold my hand more firmly, which was thrilling, but also painful, as he somehow managed to press his big thumb against my right index finger, which bore a painful wart.  I would wince sometimes and he would ask, “Is anything wrong?” and I’d try to smile and reassure him.  “No, nothing is wrong.”

Then one night there was something wrong.  Very wrong. It started that morning when I put on my last pair of underpants, the ones I avoided because of the weak, lifeless elastic.  I knew I’d have to hitch them up a few times during the day, but they were all I had, until I did my laundry.

That was choir night of course, and it was special because it was the last practice before summer vacation.  I suspected John might try and kiss me that night, since we wouldn’t be see each other until fall.

We walked slowly that night, John singing part of a hymn.  He took my hand and started swinging our arms back and forth.  The night air was filled with the fragrance of lilac and honeysuckle. 

Then something snapped.  And that something was the elastic on my underpants. I could feel them give way and start sliding down.

With my free hand I clutched my stomach and tried to grab the top of the slippery nylon underpants.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Oh yes, fine.”

I kept searching through my skirt for my underwear while twitching my hips from side to side, trying to force them upwards.

“Are you sure nothing is wrong?”

“No, no nothing is wrong.”

When I found an edge, I pulled my hand from John’s and clutched my hands in front of me and in a rolling motion, tried to keep my wandering underwear somewhere above my hemline, and off of the ground.  John continued to ask if anything was wrong, but I stuck to my story. “No, nothing is wrong.”

When we finally got to my front yard, I started running toward the front door, legs out wide like a monkey’s, trying to avoid the unthinkable:  that John would see my underpants fall onto the ground.

“What’s the matter? What are you doing?” John called after me.

“Nothing’s the matter,” I called back, as I got through the front door and slammed it.

I ran to my room, ripped off the traitorous underpants and threw them in the trash.  I put on my pajamas, flopped onto my bed, and tried to review the events of the evening.

I realized I didn’t care that I missed a possible kiss, or that I wouldn’t see him for the summer.  In fact, I never wanted to see him again.

In fact, I realized my father was right.

I was too young to date.