We were at McDonald's with our grandson the other night, and while he played like a wild man in the playground, we sat on too-small, too-hard benches and people-watched. (A dozen kids, an enclosed space with a high ceiling that echoed . . . too noisy to carry on a conversation.)
A little car -- a Camaro, I think -- pulled into a parking space, and two teenage girls got out on the passenger side, both made up and dressed up for some Friday night fun. Two teenage boys got out of the driver's side and, a few steps behind the girls, strutted into the restaurant as if they were the coolest, toughest, hippest guys around. It would have been cute and maybe even a little impressive that they projected such confidence at such a tender age . . .
. . . if I hadn't just witnessed their struggles to get out of the car. Their belts were cinched below their butts, making anything resembling normal movement or grace impossible. And by the time they wiggled and grunted their way out, their underwear was poking out at odd angles in back. Boxers for both. Plaid for the skinny one. I'm pretty sure he gave himself a wedgie maneuvering out of the cramped backseat.
I've never been able to embrace sagging as a fashion statement. It just makes me snort out loud, and I have to fight my impulse to grab their undies or bump into them just to watch them flail to recover their balance.
I do miss the days when underwear was meant to be . . . well, worn under your outer garments.
But think of all the snickers I would have missed out on.