One Christmas in the early eighties, we awoke bleary eyed and regained our sight when we each peeled open boxes of matching Wonder Woman Underoos! Our cousin had these frivolous underwear for months, and finally our mom must have given in and granted our wish for the unforgiving nylon underwear. Also, we thought that our dad’s cousin Mary Catherine was actually Linda Carter, and we desperately wanted to look like her.
Leslie raced to strip off her flannel nightgown and put on the newly discovered tidbit of pop culture, while Janie lagged a bit behind, still a little young. Leslie pulled her flashy undershirt into place, and tugged on her underwear, trying to relax as she encountered resistance. Afterall, if they didn’t fit, maybe mom wouldn’t let us keep them . . .Meanwhile, Janie surveyed the living room for suspenders, as her underwear fell past her skinny knees to the green shag carpet below, and her undershirt hung like an unflattering muʻumuʻu. Then, Santa Mom discovered a horrible truth. The gifts had been erroneously labeled, and Leslie was about to blow out the sides of the tensely positioned Underoos she was wearing. She was turning red, panicking, and began to drip with nervous nylon-induced sweat. Janie was screaming as mom tried to shake and pull Leslie loose from the wretched suit that wasn’t meant for her. Stitches made cracking sounds, and there were probably calls for dad to get the scissors, only making Janie wail louder, and for the first time, Leslie began to cry.
Once Leslie was extricated from the scene, and clothed properly in her intended Underoos, and Janie the same, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. Mom probably vowed to pay closer attention to her labeling.
