Around the same time I donned these flashy undergarments, I was also heavily in to watching Saturday morning cartoons. Every Saturday from 9a.m. to noon, kids had somehow managed to gain complete control over all the TV stations in the world. I dabbled a bit in Smurfs and School House Rock, but the main attraction, hands down, was Superfriends. No normal kid could stand to sit still after absorbing a half-hour’s worth of the Superfriends (including the Wonder Twins with sidekick, Gleek, the caped space monkey) foiling, once again, the evil plans of Lex Luther and his Legion of Doom. So, after my cartoon fill, I’d suit up in my Underoos, dart outside like the Flash, and take to the skies in pretend flight through the neighborhood.  

Barefoot, half-naked, and unashamed, I fought crime in a pair of snug blue briefs and a Spiderman T-shirt. Often, an imaginary spiderweb did the trick for getting me around. I’d breeze through the summer lawns as Spiderman would the streets of New York. Whenever I reached the length of my web, I’d perch myself on an old, termite-ridden log that had rolled off our backyard woodpile onto the grass. A log always made for a nice imaginary flagpole, especially one that hung from the 50th story of the Daily Bugle. Up there, I’d ponder the crime-filled streets below. When it came time to move on, I’d flip my wrists over, bend them just slightly so, and emit two suddens bursts of sound: psst, psst. In my opinion, these sounds–a sort of hiss placed between a “p” and a stong ”t”–most accurately described my shooting webs from my wrists. Once my web grabbed hold of something sturdy, like a skyscraper, a radio tower, or a large man’s back, I’d give the web a tug for good measure, then sail off to my next destination.  

Sometimes it became necessary to set a web trap for the bad guys. This took a lot of psst’s. A neighbor curious to see what the fuss was about could look outside in time to see a streak of legs disappear around his house corner or behind a wall of trees. The same neighbor might also have wondered just who had taught this odd little boy how to run with his hands clasped in a ball above his head. It was like he hung from an invisible thread. He’d never play sports. 

One day, I had the Joker and his villainous cronies on the run. My plan was to cut them off in a back alley somewhere. So, I took a short-cut through my backyard and, to my dismay, landed my barefoot on an angry bee collecting dandelion pollen. A sharp pain shot up my foot. It worked on me like Kryptonite (blasted Joker!). But instead of falling weak and listless to the ground in typical Superman fashion, I burst into tears and bawled like the 4-year-old I was. Finally, I collected myself enough to hop home on my good foot. Mom doctored my war-torn foot and, although I didn’t quite know it yet, I had learned something: justice is not always embraced in this world.    

Later, after my Underoos grew too tight, my mom hit up Jo-Ann Fabrics, and I upgraded my superhero wardrobe to capes. I had a Batman one and Superman one. They both were very cool and did wonders for my crime-fighting. Although, as I got older I grew tired of pretend flying. I wanted to fly for real. So, one gray day, I tied on my Superman cape, went outside, and started jumping, both arms out, with the intent that I might eventually stick in the air. When my efforts failed, I turned to God.

“Please, God, give me the ability to fly.” Jump. Crash. Then again, “Please, God, I want to fly.” Jump. Crash, again.

I carried on like this for nearly an hour. Eventually my bones started to ache, and I realized (could it be?) I was a victim of unaswered prayer. Or worse, a prayer forever answered with a disquieting ”no”. 

What’s with this not letting me fly stuff? I mean, am I missing something? Is this not a noble request? 

I was mad. I had prayed really hard, with my eyes shut and everything. The thing was, I’d been to Sunday school and knew that God was all-powerful. If He wanted me to fly, then I could fly. It was clear that He just refused to let me.

In my teens and early twenties, I would sometimes look back at that day and think what a cute but silly prayer it was. It was a little-boy-with-an-overworked-imagination prayer. Of course God wasn’t going to let me fly. Why would He?  No one could fly, except Superman, and he, first of all, was a sun-powered alien, not a human, and, second, wasn’t even real. The whole thing made me laugh at myself. My prayer wasn’t practical, it wasn’t scientific, it wasn’t…wasn’t important, what with half the world starving the way it is.

But the funny thing is, now I see things in a different light. That little boy with the Superman cape may have known what he was doing. As I read the Book of Isaiah, I find a new answer to my boyish prayer. And the suspected answer may not have been ”no”. Nor do I believe God blew me off with a light, good-natured chuckle. But instead, if I’m reading Scripture correctly, I believe God’s answer was “wait”:

[B]ut those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles (Isaiah 40:31).   

 And besides, Superman is not the only person who can fly. According to Luke, Jesus flew up to Heaven. And if Jesus is the prototype of the resurrected man, it doesn’t seem so far-fetched that I should fly too someday. With that said, Jess has a sewing machine in the basement, and it looks like I have a date with Jo-Ann Fabrics. And maybe this time I’ll swing by DSW for some superboots, to ward off any Kryptonite bee stings.

Jean’s Day came every Friday and served as the employees’ lone reward for making it through the work week. It allowed us little people to break free the protocol fetters of corporate dress, ditch the Khakis and throw on a nice, comfortable pair of denim. It was the unspoken substitute for a raise, and yet, I found myself staring at my closet, yearning to slide on a pair of dress pants instead. What was the matter with me?

After dismissing the Freudian blaim-the-parents theory, I made a loose review of my jean situation. There, I discovered the source of these ailing emotions. Basically, I had three pair left to my name - my Abercrombie’s, my Gap’s and my Plato’s Closet Abercrombie Super Flairs, cut an inch too short. Now, three’s not a bad number, but, the problem was, they were all on their last leg - no pun intended.

I ran all three in an even rotation, washing only when necessary. My Abercrombie jeans, however, developed a hole in the knee which grew bigger by the day and I was down to two I could wear confidently in public. 

To be fair to the reader, it must be mentioned here that I do own a fourth pair of Abercrombie jeans. These have seen Clinton’s presidency. Three months ago, without warning, all the denim blew out in them, thankfully leaving intact the zipper and seat for me to work with. It was as if all the thread went on strike at once. When I wear them, a distance observer may question if I’m even wearing pants, for a fair amount of skin shows. It’s not unusual for a pocket of car keys to swing out the fashionable hole in the thigh, banging in perfect measure on the outside of my pants as I walk. Now, the ragged bottoms are buried in my dresser drawer, sprung free only for roofing projects.    

My two remaining jeans neither feel nor look cool. My “Super Flairs”, well, let’s be honest, are just a dumb pair of jeans. They’re stupidly cut and their bell bottoms could devour the thickest of walking casts. It also has the annoying habit of exposing the entire length of the white of my sock as well as revealing a pale sliver of leg whenever I sit.

My Gap jeans are equally annoying in that the leg cuffs have somehow disintegrated, leaving holes big enough to loop the heels of my shoes. An overly bouncy step is greeted with a tug in back.

Anway, I hadn’t bought new jeans in over five years. Strangely, it made me nervous. I wasn’t exactly up-to-date on the jean fashion, and it pained me to waste a $100 on a pair. I’d given up on buying second hand clothing, which were always an odd fit anway, broken and stretched as they were by the bulges and curves of the original wearer. 

So, in an effort to avoid the mistake of buying jeans I’d later become embarrassed about wearing, I conducted a secret (and somewhat disturbing) market research analysis. I spent much time in crowds eye-balling the backs of men - never in a weird way, mind you, but strictly for the gathering of data.

In church, my most effective studies took place during the meet-and-greet, when people stood up. I’d shake their hands - “good morning” - then once they turned I’d go right to work absorbing their backsides, taking extensive mental notes. Although, it likely made everyone involved quite uncomfortable (this couldn’t be helped), it was necessary to discover the brand of jeans guys my age were wearing these days. 

After weeks of reading the butts of men, the belt soon became my greatest enemy. It hid the brand names, making the process most tedious and bothersome. It took several extra glances and a problem-solving mind to piece together the information that was only half-showing that I so desperately needed.   

But finally, after weeks of living like this, I concluded my research and felt happy with the results. I headed over to Macy’s to find some Levi’s. When I first got there, Jess spotted a table of some with cool washes and cuts. Having done my research, I knew the style now leaned toward a tighter, straighter leg look. I excitedly grabbed a pair of what was called the ”skinny” fit in my size and made a beeline for the dressing rooms. Jess thought I needed the boot fit. To this, I insisted that she get with the times.

The legs of these pants tappered so hard that I could barely get them on over my socks. After a good five minute struggle, I finally got them zipped and buttoned. I faced the dressing room mirror, and staring back at me was a sight so ridiculous that it had to be illegal. I busted out laughing. It was nothing short of denim spandex. Jess hurried in to see and buckled in laughter. I didn’t know I had a gut… 

“You really need the boot fit,” she said. This time I agreed.    

Miraculously I peeled the things off. In the end, the boot fit was what worked. They fit perfectly, and jeans never felt so good. Jess gave the thumbs up and we both drove home with smiles on our faces.

Now I need to find some shorts for summer that fit. Just do yourself and me a favor, will ya? Email me the brand and style of shorts you wear and we’ll just call it the day.