Pamper yourself

My grade school was roughly two blocks from my house. There were safeties on both corners where I would have to cross the street. And yet, for some reason, my mom drove me to school every day. And, for some reason, I let her, even though I took no end of teasing about it. Even then, I felt entitled to a chauffeur. Wouldn't you like to just smack my little pampered ass now? I know I would.

I was, however, responsible for the drudgery of walking home, all the way home, even in the snow and stuff! For the most part, my two-block trip was uneventful, until the day when I was in second grade and Ruth Riley decided to be my walkin' buddy.

Ruth was probably twelve years old, but was much, much larger and taller than an average girl her age. She was in the special ed class, and so I knew her more by reputation than by interaction. But when she came up and wanted to be friendly with me on the walk home one day, it was just the way I was raised to treat her nicely and not shun or ridicule her. I sure wish I'd been raised meaner.

Pretty early on in our conversation, Ruth informed me that she wore diapers, and seemed to be prompting me to say I was also presently diaper swaddled. Well, I was seven years old, and bedwetting wasn't that distant a memory yet, so I most certainly was not gonna cop to Pampers in my wardrobe. I kept vehemently denying that I wore diapers, and Ruth became more and more insistent that I admit to it. No way was I backin' down in this matter of honor.

Then she stopped walking and looked at me, her eyes half lidded, and quite reasonably and patiently informed me, "I would hate to have to beat you up."

I looked up at this relative mountain of a girl, and you never saw a petrified little bitch back down and change her story so fast. "Yeah, I wear diapers, wearin' 'em now, yup, me too, uh huh..."

The irony is, I really could've used some diapers at that particular moment.