Why I can't wear stretchy pants

by gretchen

Christopher is the master. I bow to his ability to torture me for over 20 years by uttering one simple sentence.

Chris is my older brother. Seven years my senior, he has long been the sophisticate to my spaz, the intellectual to my idiot. He'll say none of that is so anymore (possibly untrue), but he cannot argue the validity of this fact when I was young.

Older brothers who lack younger brothers and are, instead, shackled with younger sisters, have it rough. They can't truly embrace their god-given right to torture their younger versions of themselves because those younger versions scream like Nathan Lane on helium and mothers aren't keen on that. So he had to be creative with his torture.

First, there is the art of the bruise-less punch. There's a little spot, right above the knee where the quad muscle splits that every man alive knows can cause leg-numbing pain with one swift knuckle hit. BAM! And you are in agonizing pain and can't move your leg. Scream to mom all you want, there's no evidence.

Then there's the mental torture. And this, this my brother made into an art form. I didn't realize this was so until I was wearing my Victoria's Secret Stretch Cords today. See, the idea of stretchy pants is alluring to me. They are forgiving on water or cookie-retention days. They are merciful during the holidays. They can convince you that you are a size 6 when you are really a size 12. But half way through my day today, I realized I can never wear them with confidence.

As I said, I blame the brother.

He was home from college, a cool Villanova pre-med student who was writing stories and knew about things. He was interesting, had a style about himself that I can only describe as worldly. Elegant. Yes. I was totally in awe of him. And I wanted him to think I too was worldly, elegant. Which is hard when you are in junior high with zits, lop-sided, feathered hair, wearing florescent clothes and pale blue eyeshadow and braces. Many, many descriptive words, there, friends. Elegant and Worldly are not even close.

I stood next to him at St. Paul's, third-row from the front. Little known fact: families of five are PRIME candidates for bringing up the gifts. They love to get you. And we hate it. WE HATE IT. But we got nailed all the time. You are sitting there before Mass starts, minding your own business, and some lady with sensible shoes and a frumpy dress leans into your mother, sitting on the end, and asks if you would bring up the gifts. Mother smiles and agrees and all three children shoot her looks of death (very Catholic) and brand her (again) as traitor. And such was the case that night. You know, if you come late and sit in the wings, this doesn't happen.

So we were standing there, praying. I was immediately worried about what I was wearing because everyone will see me. I was a catholic school girl: I didn't know anything but navy blue and plaid. Any time out of the uniform was a problem. I stressed and stressed. And stressed. Who would see me? Would I trip? Would I do something wrong? I calculated the possible calamities. And then, about ten minutes before we needed to walk back to get the stupid gifts, my brother whispered those haunting, terrible words:

"Your fly is down."

Now. I am familiar with his work. I know he's a joker. I know he'll get you to buy into the most ridiculous of stories. I know he's good. And so I stood there, thinking I needed to be cool, smart. Then again, you can't CANNOT walk down the aisle with your fly down. I mean, you might as well move to another country after that; you are not living it down. So I tried to figure out if he was messing with me without looking down.

I wiggled to see if there was airflow coming in unexpected places. Couldn't tell.

I tried clasping my hands (in prayer) in front of my jeans, but still, couldn't tell.

I rubbed the side of my hand across the fly which made me looking like I had a "condition" but still, couldn't tell.

And then, I came up with it: I would put my hands in my pockets and pull. Too much give would mean the fly was down. Not much give meant I was fine and my brother was an ass. And so I did it. And I was pretty sure the fly was up. So I did not do the embarrassing thing he wanted me to do which was to look down. I was smarter than him.

Indeed.

But as we walked back, I started to worry. Maybe it was down and I just hadn't felt it. Was I willing to risk walking in front of the whole church with my fly down? Was I willing to have half the church see me checking my fly? Apparently, I was not. And so I did not.

I spent 42 minutes obsessing about this damn fly. Kept putting my hands in my pocket to test the give. The give was really the secret. It had to be, right?

Well, when I got into the car, I finally looked: my fly was up. And so I knew two things:

1. The hands in pockets to make sure the fly is up is a good test.

2. My brother is smarter than me.

Today I was standing in front of several coworkers, and I put my hands in my pockets. And let me tell you, there was lots of give. LOTS. OF. GIVE. My test was telling me that I needed to check my fly and fast. But I didn't know how to escape the conversation without looking obvious. Then again, the longer I lingered the more people were apt to catch on. I tugged at the bottom of my sweater. I twisted my hips so that I wasn't really facing them. I put my hands in my pockets and tired to push the sides of my fly together. It was the longest ten-minute group conversation in the history of the universe.

I slipped back to my desk and sat down at my computer. When no one was looking, I reached down to zip up, blushing, embarrassed.

But my fly was not down. You see, the overly-stretchy pants were not a true indicator in this case. When I pulled, the stretchy STRETCHED. How would I know if my fly was down? I could be walking around with no discreet test, no way to know! NOTHING! I HAD NO PLAN FOR THE STRETCHY PANTS. The stretchy pants' fly could be wide the hell open and I had no way to discreetly tell. No way. Disaster.

I stopped. I caught my breath.

And I realized:

1. My brother scarred me for life in church that day.

2. How much I admire his work.