When I was a kid, I was all about the long johns in the winter. I don’t know when I moved onto the lounge pants — maybe when I become a swinging type of guy — but for this tale, it doesn’t really matter.
I remember that while I had numerous pairs of long johns, I had two pairs I really liked, a blue pair and a white pair. I don’t remember exactly why I liked them — maybe they were comfy, maybe there were warmer than the others, maybe it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the time the white pair turned up missing.
For a couple weeks I looked for those white pair of long johns. I triple checked the laundry room, quadruple checked under the bed and even gave my room a thorough cleaning looking for those blasted things. And then, one night, I found them. Or, rather, saw them.
Joy was wearing them.
“Hey! HEY! THOSE ARE MINE!”
“What? What are yours? These pickles? No, I just got them out of the refridgerator. There’s still some in there if you want. Top shelf,” she answered, popping another pickle in her mouth, smirking that bitchy smirk of hers.
“No, not the pickles. The LONG JOHNS. THOSE ARE MY LONG JOHNS!”
“Oh, really? Oh my. They must have been mistakenly put in my drawer.”
I hated her.
“Give them back.”
“Give them back. RIght now. Or I’m telling mom.”
“Oh for crying out loud you big sissy. God, you’re such a loser,” Joy said as she went upstairs to change out of my long johns.
I followed her up the stairs and waited outside of her room until she was done. When she came out, she threw them that me, hitting me in the face. Grossed out, I flung them to the floor and waited until she went downstairs before I picked them up again. Pinching them between my thumb and pointer finger, I took them to the laundry room and threw them in the wash. It was chilly that night and wearing a warm pair of long johns fresh from the dryer on a nippy night is just an awesome feeling.
Soon enough, the dryer buzzed and I flew downstairs, grabbed the long johns and ran up to my room to get into them before all the hot went away. I was done in no time at all.
I walked back downstairs to the rec room where Joy was watching TV, making sure to stroll in front of the television so she’d notice I was wearing my long johns. Yeah. I showed her.
“What’s that?” She asked, pointing to the front of the long johns. “Did you spill something on them?”
“What? No!” I looked down at the long johns to see what she was talking about and I saw a brown stain on the crotch.
“What did you do to my long johns?”
“Nothing. I don’t know what you are talking about.” But she did. I could tell.
I looked at the stain again. It couldn’t have been a shit stain, because it would have been in the back.
“Whichya thinking about?” Joy asked.
“Nothing. Shut up.” I kept staring at the stain. I was getting a sinking feeling, because it was dawning on me what the stain was. There was one way to be sure, and I didn’t want to check and verify, but I did. I turned my back to Joy and pulled the front of the long johns out so I could see the inside — like most normal people, I go commando in long johns, and I didn’t want Joy to even get a glimpse of my junk. My suspicions were confirmed.
The brown stain was darker on the inside.
I looked at Joy, tears of rage already forming.
“WHAT IS THAT!”
“Oh, you know what that is.”
“YOU HAD YOUR PERIOD IN MY LONG JOHNS! I HATE YOU!”
I ran upstairs crying. My junk had touched Joy’s period stain. I wanted to die.
“Don’t throw those away!” I heard her call from downstairs. “I’ll still wear them if you don’t want them.”
I lived in hell.