$4 t-shirt and a story that has nothing to do with it

Now that I have your attention, I must think up a story. I have to. I received an e-mail, asking for a blogstory. What's girl to do? Come, sit in my lap.

Once Upon a Time, when I was less than kindergarten age, when my morning, afternoon, and evening schedules were all penciled in with the word "play," I found myself being fitted for a shiny new pair of yellow shorts, as my mother slaved away at a sewing machine. They were almost done; all she needed to do was thread some elastic through the waist band.

My mother wasn't really much of a seamstress; stitching one piece of fabric to another was do-able. Zippers and buttonholes were out of the question, however, so elastic it was.

Alas. There was no elastic to be found in the sewing box.

No sense in dragging all the kids along, she just ran next door to ask Mardell (that's Mrs. McKenna to you and me) to keep an eye on us while she ran up to the Scott's dime store for a sec. Mardell was only too happy to oblige, as taking care of a kid in our neighborhood in the mid 60s consisted primarily of waking us up, and sending us outside for a bit of fresh air until our Dad's got home from work around 5:30 in the evening.

So my mother parked me on Mardell's front step, still wearing the shorts-in-limbo. I distinctly remember banging on the screen door for permission to come in, but was denied. I sat down and waited with my chin in my hand. Bored.

Bored, that is, until little (though 2 years my senior) Joe McKenna sauntered up, toting 2 pairs of boxing gloves. "Wanna box?" he said? "Sure." Boxing? There was a time in my life when I'd actually say "Sure" to boxing? I was actually going to lace up and punch someone for fun? I was no Miss Priss when I was 4 years old. Like I am now.

I gloved up. These were the real McCoy, for kid's gloves; Joe actually had to lace me into them, and tie them into shoestring-like knots. I don't remember how he got into his own gloves. He did though, and said, "ready?"

Ready as I'd ever be. I stood up and assumed my best boxing stance.

And my elastic-less shorts fell right to my ankles.

I challenge any one of you to strap yourself into these things, and pull up your pants. Seriously, look at them:


It's impossible. While I struggled around with 2 giant thumbs on each hand, that blasted Joe McKenna lay helplessly in the grass, laughing his 6-year-old butt off. Chivalry was dead even then. I screamed thru the door for more help, but apparently Barnabus Collins had more to offer than the screechy neighbor kid.

There was nothing for me to do then, but sit my underpants right back down on the stoop, and wait, shorts around my ankles, for my Mom to arrive back home, and unlace me from my boxing-glove shackles.

That's the end of the story. I wonder what that Joe McKenna's up to these days, he moved shortly after that. Wonder if he ever remembers the stupid little fat girl next door, losing her drawers on his front step.

I wonder why sewing never appealed to me.