Dressing The Future In My Humility

 The Three Little Pigs

 

I sewed 107 copies of the sweatpants I urinated in on stage in Kindergarten. I gave them away to visitors at the Defibrillator Gallery in Chicago, IL. Each pair was accompanied by a small booklet containing the text shown below. Unwanted pants were left on the floor.

 

 

*In the car driving to some place, I think it was Southern Indiana, just on the border of Kentucky. I don’t remember what I was wearing before the incident, but I was in the backseat with a styrofoam cup of liquid. I was poking at the ice with a straw quite aggressively when it happened. I poked a hole through the cup and was soaked. We weren’t even an hour from home, so my parents made an executive decision to stop at a nearby store. I quickly tried on some turquoise sweatpants, and we were back on the road.

 

*We were on our way to rehearsal for the school play, The Three Little Pigs. I was playing a rather large role as the pig with the stick house. Happily seen as being not the smartest but not the dumbest of the pigs, uniquely displaced in the middle. We were on our way to the stage when the teacher, Mrs. Myers-Gregory (now looking back, a rather progressive woman), declared the last chance for a bathroom break. I did not go; we took the stage. I was doing a marvelous job standing awkwardly in front of my stick house constructed of hot glue, construction paper, and sticks, when it hit me. I had to pee. I made a decision after extreme squirming ceased to aid my struggle. I let it flow, thinking to myself, “maybe my underwear will just soak it all up, and no one will be able to tell” I happened to be wearing the turquoise sweatpants, now adorned with two streams of urine going down my pant legs into the rather sizable (to my memory) puddle on the floor. The girl next to me (at that time the most popular girl in class), the pig with the straw house, found herself standing in my puddle of ruin. She raised her hand, and next thing I remember, I am in class sitting in the circle sporting my wet pants as if I was going to get away with having peed my pants without anyone noticing when someone asks me, “did you pee your pants?” I reply with a diversion of sorts. I explained that I had had these stains all day cause I happened to make an unfortunate mistake and swung on the wet swing at my babysitter’s house. The stench of urine made my lie unbearably transparent, so I was taken in to the hallway and asked to confess. I did and was given a dry pair of sweat pants from the lost and found.

 

*The opening night of the play, our house was broken in to. We returned home to a couple of mangled doors that had been crowbarred open. The only thing stolen was my brother’s birthday card money that was lying out on a dresser. I always thought that we had arrived home while the robber was still in the house, and he just decided to hide in our house for the rest of the time we were living there. There was no talking me out of my belief in his presence. Even my own investigations proved unsuccessful in convincing myself otherwise.