Underpants

Photo by Merve

On my ninth birthday, a package arrived in the mail. I was in the middle of Spirograph design, changing out a red pen for a green one when Mom opened the sliding glass door.

“This came in the mail for you,” she said. “It’s from your Great Aunt Agnes.”

My Great Aunt Agnes was Grandma’s little sister. Mom called her an independent woman because she worked in an office. She wore tight dresses, high heel shoes and tucked her hair under a curly blonde wig. She smelled of talcum powder, pinched her cheeks pink, and left lipstick on my face when she slobber-kissed me. I liked her because she always remembered my birthday.  

I hugged my birthday package. I wanted to scream and let everyone in Happy Acres know about it.

Brother was jealous, but it wasn’t my fault my birthday came four days before his.

I ran my fingers over my name and address written in cursive. I liked the postage stamps at the top and Easter Seals along the bottom. I shook it. It wasn’t heavy, but something clunked inside. What could it be? Did Great Aunt Agnes read my mind and send me a Malibu Barbie? Last year she sent a crisp, five-dollar bill inside a Scooby-Doo birthday card. 

I ripped open my package. 

Inside was the prettiest gold box I’d ever seen. It was tied with a satin pink ribbon around a sprig of plastic daisies. It looked to me like one of those fancy gift wrap examples at Sears, the ones I wished for while Mom waited in line for her catalog order. 

Underneath pink tissue paper lay three pairs of underpants. I held up the first pair with both hands. The waist was twice as big around as my head. Why would Great Aunt Agnes send me giant underpants for my birthday? 

Mom gasped. She grabbed for the second pair. 

Brother couldn’t take his eyes off the third.

“I can’t believe that woman,” she said. “Great Aunt Agnes gave you sexy panties for your ninth birthday.” 

I hated it when Mom said the word panties. Panties. Panties. Panties. Babies wore panties. Big girls wore underpants.

Now, Dad was looking at them!

“These are supposed to be smalls?” she said, fussing with the tag. “Maybe for a grown woman on her honeymoon, but not for a little nine-year-old girl, for god’s sake. What was she thinking?” 

What was wrong with my underpants? They were pastel rainbow-colored with the days of the week embroidered in cursive, although sometimes I was off a day or two. The ones Great Aunt Agnes sent looked different. The fronts were see-through rose lace, topped with a pearl onto a satin bow. The backs felt slinky against my face; wasn’t much to the sides either but string. I’d never seen such fancy underpants before. Mom wore a girdle.

Every girl I knew at Beardsley Elementary wore high-waisted, cotton underpants like me. Even boys knew that. They’d stand by the monkey bars, hoping some girl swinging upside down forgot to wear her shorts.

“I see London. I see France. I see Monica’s underpants,” they’d chant if lucky enough to get a peek. 

I found an envelope with a card inside. “Happy birthday to my Great Niece. You are growing up into a beautiful young woman. Love and kisses, Great Aunt Agnes.” 

“Yeah, right,” Brother laughed. 

Me growing up into a young woman? What did that mean? Mom was a woman. Great Aunt Agnes was an old woman. But I was only a girl, happy with my underpants just the way they were. I stuffed them back under the tissues and closed the lid tight. I just wanted was a Barbie, that’s all.

“How about we put these pretty, little panties in the back of your underwear drawer? I’m sure someday you’ll grow into them,” she said, taking the golden box away.

That someday didn’t arrive for another decade.