THE SONIC BOOMER
At first I thought the young man had something wrong with his leg. He was sort of limping and, every once in a while, would stop to hitch things up — as if a metal knee brace had suddenly slipped out of place.
But once he got closer, I realized that his ambulatory difficulties were directly attributable to the fact that his pants were cinched around his thighs rather than his waist.
I was being treated to a permitted glimpse of his rather rounded derriere and accompanying undershorts. Lucky me!
Sigh.
Now, I pride myself on trying to stay current in a world that is quickly zipping out of my grasp, and I realize that the younger generation has embraced this underwear thing for years now as fashion statement. Young men evidently do it for the same reason they do everything else — to attract females.
So I tried not to judge him. Besides, I was sympathetic to his walking problems the same way I am sympathetic to young girls struggling to walk in painful high heels. Why do they do it? In order to attract males, of course.
Another alluring mating ritual is to blast one’s favorite songs through sensitive automotive speakers. Every time I am at the gas station, someone (usually a young male) will pull in with his speakers barking out “BOOMBOOMBOOM” in what simply must be another misguided effort to attract the elusive and delicate female. It has to be. There is no other compelling reason to reduce once-expensive speakers to nothing more than tattered, frayed soup bowls that won’t even hold soup.
And don’t get me started on piercings. Must everything have a hole through it?
But now I am talking like an old fuddy-duddy. So, I am going to overcome my misconceptions through total immersion. I am going to seek acceptance through understanding. I am going to walk a mile in another man’s moccasins not by beating him, but by joining him.
I will begin by blasting “Winchester Cathedral” from my Sirius radio channel down at the Shell station until my speakers do nothing more than vibrate.
I will also convince my husband to shove his pants down below his underwear in the back.
I can see where Mark, a former Wellington councilman, might be somewhat resistant at first, but I am willing take on that uphill battle so that we, as a couple, become enlightened.
Once he accedes, I will buy him all new undies — probably boxer shorts. I think that’s the look. No one wants to see tighty whities, especially if they are less than tight or, worse, less than white. Then I will practice with him while he walks back and forth across the bedroom gripping his belt buckle for all it’s worth. Because you have to do that or you stumble, as anyone knows.
Of course, I could kill two birds with one stone if I got him a belly button ring and used a small chain to attach it firmly to his underwear. Then he’d at least be hands-free.
Anyway, once he is able to safely maneuver across the bedroom floor, we’ll head proudly out into public.
I will be carrying a stick. You know, to stave off the adoring females.
So when you see us — him with his chain and underwear, and me with my stick — don’t cross the street. Smile and wave because we’re just like the younger generation. We’re stylin’.
