Underwear On The Outside

After the first letter I sent to Precious' wife, some of my friends asked for letters of their own. Here's another:

Dear Jen,

In the not too distant past, you and I were stuck in traffic and to alleviate the boredom, I read you a few of the posts from the TMAR page. One in particular was the letter I had written my friend’s wife, Roni. When I was done, you requested a letter for yourself. I’m not sure what you’re going to do with one (we can text and call and what not), but then again, everybody likes mail. Interesting side note, that letter I wrote to Roni got passed around their family at Christmas. Can you imagine that? There’s a family in Texas sharing my letter with each other at Christmas. Anyway, you requested a letter and I’m going to assume that you want a story (that’s really all I got for the bodies of letters).

When I was shorter (much, much shorter), I had a bit of a superhero obsession. Like most kids, I loved my comic books and my action figures. I wasted away days watching cartoons and superhero television shows. I was a bit of an outsider and I took comfort from the idea that I could be special like them. It was possible that I could wake up one morning to find I possessed some super ability that I could use to save the world. While there is a treasure trove of ridiculous stories from this era, I’m just going to give you one (I’m not sure how many letters I’m going to eventually have to write).

One of my favorite places, in the house I lived in at the time, was the pantry. It was the center point of the kitchen, extending slightly from the wall and positioned between the counters (that I frequently climbed). In most homes, the pantry is just a single door that opens up onto a small room lined with shelves for food storage. But not this pantry; this pantry had these big double doors that were trimmed and gilded. There were a pair of brass handles in the center and when you grabbed them and pulled, you felt the full weight of these oversized doors. You see, the doors were lined on the inside with shelves like a refrigerator and these shelves were packed with canned goods. As a smaller child, this presented a bit of a struggle. So in my imagination I was pulling open the doors of some long forgotten temple, revealing some sacred place of wonder. I would grab these doors and dig in my heels, pulling with all of my might. The doors would swing out and I imagined myself being bathed in some mysterious light while a choir of angels sang in the distance. I stood, arms outstretched, neck tilted, lips slightly parted, and held in the passionate embrace of beckoning angels. It was magical. That’s how I opened them. My mom would just pull open the door, reach in and grab what she needed. It’s like she was completely out of touch with magic and mystery.

The doors alone made the pantry awesome to me, but inside, things got much better. You see, the back wall was a rack of shelves, but those racks had concealed hinges in the middle and if you tugged on the shelf, it would open out to reveal a hidden area. There was a whole other room concealed within the pantry. This area was also packed with shelves and food. Did I mention how out of touch my mom was? I mean it was such a waste of secret space. There was no hidden lab or portal to another dimension or anything. Anyway, I could fit quite comfortably in the recessed area, even when I closed the center-hinged shelves. It was my own, private fortress of solitude. I needed that place.

Most superheroes led everyday lives, but when trouble arose they would dash off and return fully costumed. Being me (who else could I be?), I started practicing for my own eventual quick change needs. After all, if I were destined to be a superhero, I would need disguises and a distinctive costume. Obviously, my yet to be discovered powers would shape my hero identity. And I didn’t want to waste my time coming up with an inapplicable name and design, so I decided to practice as Superman until my own powers were revealed. My father was optically challenged and worked in finance, so there were readily available suits and glasses at my disposal. Well, to be fair, they really weren’t at my disposal. I was just borrowing them, but he didn’t really appreciate my wardrobe needs. What’s a hero going to do? Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for the greater good.

The suits were all a bit too big for me (I was much shorter at the time) and the glasses protruded way past my nose, but it was the best I could do. I could refine it later. While Clark Kent looked nerdy, I looked semi-ridiculous. All I needed now was my super hero costume. Unfortunately, due to the lack of spandex tailors in my immediate area, I had to improvise to the best of my abilities. I already owned a pair of Superman underoos (a t-shirt made to look like Superman’s top and a pair of stylized underwear to resemble the bottoms). I had blue jeans and Superman had blue tights (almost exactly the same thing). The cape was no problem. I simply snagged a red bathroom towel and a couple of safety pins. It was a bit heavier than I imagined a cape should be, but that’s what super strength is for. For the finishing piece, I took my cowboy boots outside and spray-painted them fire engine red (yet another wardrobe necessity that my father questioned). When I first started donning my costume, I was a bit unsure, but once I pulled the underwear up the outside of my jeans, I knew I had it right. After all, underwear on the outside was a defining characteristic of superheroes.

I pulled my father’s suit jacket over the whole ensemble and buttoned it down the front. The jacket hung down past my knees, so I was fairly certain the suit pants wouldn’t be necessary. My underwear and cape were hidden and those were the important parts. There I was, this tiny kid drowning in a suit jacket that hung nearly to the floor and clutching glasses that were far too big for me to the side of my face. But I was a child of purposeful intent. I was going to be legendary. I cautiously waited until my path was safe and then I dashed into the kitchen, threw open the doors (still pausing for just a second to bathe in the light of wonder that surely only I could see), and scrambled into the back of the pantry. With the center-hinged shelves closed, I was free from scrutiny and could begin the awkward disrobing of my father’s suit to reveal my costume beneath. Once this was accomplished and I had tended to all the minor adjustments that were necessary, I bounded out from the pantry, screaming the Superman theme at the top of my lungs and prepared for the adulation of my fans. My parents came into the kitchen with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance on their faces.

In all of my majesty, I turned to face them, throwing my hands on my hips and sticking out my chest as far as possible. My shiny red boots glistened…and peeled a bit. I had an “S” on my chest, red underwear pulled over my Wranglers, and I was certain that a wind of unknown origins would be gently flapping my bath towel behind me (I never really checked on that one). I was equally certain that I was making a lasting impression. I’m still pretty sure of that one; perhaps not the intended impression, but a lasting impression, none the less. No one was amazed. Entertained, perhaps, but not amazed. I had let it all out, I had taken time and effort to show them the true nature of my heroic self and they had just dismissed it. With a face as red as my cape, I went back into my pantry. These poor fools didn’t know a superhero when they saw one. At least I still had my fortress of solitude.

These moments, and many like them, are the foundations of who I became. How I felt about these moments mattered more to me than how other people interpreted them. I had learned an unintentional lesson. You see, superheroes weren’t out to impress people. Superheroes just did what was right, without the accolades. They did good and left the credit to others; villains where the power hungry who yearned for attention and glory. I didn’t want to be a villain and I began to understand why superheroes wore disguises. They wore disguises for anonymity. In part, they wanted to protect their loved ones from harm, but it occurred to me that they were also conveying a message. It’s who we are on the inside that counts, not who we show to the world. That’s why they wore their underwear on the outside. The underwear that concealed our private parts, which inherently were private themselves, were on bold display when they were in hero mode. To me, it was a proclamation to the world: This is my most secret of secrets. This is who I really am. Yeah, they wore masks so that you couldn’t see their faces, but I think that was to focus you on the acts and not the person. Truthfully, we would all prefer a little anonymity when our secrets are on display.

The other thing I took away from these adventures was the comfort in solitude. One of the recurring themes throughout all superhero mythology was isolation. They couldn’t share their secrets or truly be themselves with everyone. There were a select few who could be shown that other self, but it was always at great peril. Most of the superheroes had private fortresses or caves where they could unmask and contemplate their actions. Some superheroes were always on the move, drifting from place to place to avoid attachments. All of them, lived in periodic states of isolation, separate from the rest of the world, even though they were a part of it.

Thinking back, I really enjoyed those moments when I was hidden away in the back of the pantry. It wasn’t the TARDIS or the Fortress of Solitude, but it was mine. It was my own little world, where I could go and be myself; a place where I could shrug off my disguises and expose my internal truths (as befuddled as they were). As I grew taller (not much taller), I found that I always created some little hidey-hole where I could escape the sometimes unbearable burden of being. I think at times we all feel alone and sooner or later we should begin to get comfortable with ourselves. It’s important to be able to shut out the rest of the world and spend time remembering who we are.

The things that shape us in our youth, those sometimes forgotten moments and the remembered ones, have long rippling effects and it is up to us to choose what we do with them. So, yeah, sometimes I am secluded and quiet. There are occasions when I want to be left alone and there are occasions when I’m left alone by default and not choice. Sometimes I find myself wandering and lonely and sometimes I find myself needing a break from the world. But sometimes, sometimes, I find myself pulling my underwear up the outside of my pants and those are the moments I live for.

Nothing but love,

Kris