The time I split my pants 😬
The whole thing started with Fowling, or football bowling for the uninitiated.
Maybe it was a birthday party or some commemorative event. I can’t remember. I do remember all of Ms. H’s family (like maybe 8 of them) converging on the Fowling Warehouse in beautiful Hamtramck, Michigan for a few lively rounds of this ridiculous, made-up, American game.
What is fowling?
Take a NFL regulation-size football and hurl it towards a set of bowling pins at the other end of a dirt filled lane, about the width of– you guessed it – a regulation bowling lane. And in an effort to up the exercise quotient of this game, you had to reset the pins every two football hurls.
We split up into two teams and spent many agonizing minutes dodging incoming footballs from other teams and our own opponents, and suffering through crushing embarrassment as our thrown balls landed about five feet in front of , to the left of, or right of us.
I hated fowling in part because I wore a pair of chinos that fit just a tad too snuggly to be twisting, turning, and bending over. But in my defense I wanted to look good.
Which I did, or so I thought, until I bent over to pick up a football, or maybe reset the pins, and felt a ripping sensation across my butt.
Nice one, Sennett! I played it cool, stood up, and hoped no one in my family noticed my ass had just torn open my own pants. It was like the gluteal equivalent of punching myself in the face.
Later in the bathroom I determined my ass had split a two-inch-plus inch hole in my pants. Buns of Steel, anyone??
I had to carry the shame of my gaping pants to my brother-in-law’s house for cake and presents (I think so???). He heated his house cooler than we did, which gave me the perfect excuse to wear my shearling coat in the house. For two hours I sat on the couch while everyone else hovered around the kitchen table gobbling cake with me sitting there lying about how the Fowling Warehouse had given me a chill, and I’ll just keep wearing my coat, thank you very much.
Some time after we got home, maybe a day or two, I admitted to Ms. H the truth. I had ripped my pants and wore my coat to evade further shame.
She laughed for a good thirty days.
The seamstress stitched everything back to together, but not before she had words with me about my pants being too tight to begin with. Right. Thanks!
For many, many years, both pre- and post-transition, the terror of new experiences filled me to such a degree that I often never left the house for extended periods of time. When I married into Ms. H’s family, that option disappeared. She and her family did many, many activities together and expected me to attend. I did, of course, and still do, gladly.
But I’ve learned to wear looser-fitting clothing, especially during the warmer months. 😉
Until next time, Jay