Husky Tough Skins

I am not really sure where I am going to go with this but in the mind of those afflicted with Attention Deficit Disorder, all points on the cognitive map are equally valid - like wandering the desert without a compass and having a great time doing it. So I will bring you along into my first back to school clothes shopping trip as a kid.

Sometime in the late 1970's my mother had become quite fond of the last dying gasp of 19th century midwest commerce - Sears and Roebuck Co. If you lived in an 1870's goldrush boomtown, you might refer to Sears as a general store. It still is. We bought belt sanders and leather belts, diamond rings and socket wrenches, had our oil changed and our Christmas picture taken. But what I remember most about Sears was that it was the place my mother brought us for the annual retail ritual of ridicule- back to school shopping. And this year we were hunting for jeans.

In the late 1970s and early 1980s the concept of politically correct hadn't quite been developed and if you were a chunky kid - the type that likes Nesquick in his milk and hot dogs cut up in his macaroni and cheese, manufacturers of goods and services weren't shy about calling this out for the world to see. For the fat kids of my generation there were separate lines of clothing with names clearly printed on them showcasing your obesity through careful choice of diction.

Like the Lewis and Clarke Expedition on their voyage to the pacific, we could smell the promised destitation before we actually got there - the bold and earthy aroma of canvas and leather. And as we rounded the corner of the washing machine section, twelve foot walls of neatly folded pants, rose from the floor like the cliffs of Dover, only in blue denim. We stood with our necks cocked upward - motionless.

"Can I help you," asked a woman in her forties who smelled like floral perfume and menthol cigarettes. "Well my boys are in need of some jeans. And they are going to have to last all year." "Well for this little guy (referring to my brother who throughout childhood was not only rail thin but was routinely credited by strangers as being as cute as Opie Griffith) we can go with these regular jeans here." She paused, looked quite analytically at my belly, lifted my t-shirt above my waistline and announced to the entire store, "This big guy is going to need extended sizes. He's definitely going to need...Husky Toughskins." And she led my mother to the special section of jeans that I was just fat enough to be qualified for. And I joined the ranks of my fellow husky brothers. The section was small and the choices were limited. But in brown stamped leather on the back of every pair of jeans, the word "Husky" informed all onlookers, as if my large love handles didn't already, that you were larger than a regular person. I just prayed that come Monday at school I wouldn't be forced to do the "truffle shuffle" to amuse older kids.

Now the irony of the brand name didn't become aparent to me until just recently. Any kid who has the word husky emblazened on his jeans and pysche has to have a tough skin. I think they were trying to tout the durability of the pants but instead tested the durability of the wearer.

Reflecting on this experience makes me wonder if there are parts of the church that are reserved for "normal" people and other parts of the church where people are singled out, judged, analyzed and labeled. Parts of church where the whole store is made aware that we are less than "normal." I am curious if anyone has ever felt this way. I would love to hear your comments.