🏹 Simon's holidays
Part 4: New pants
⚠️ This is a work of fiction
⚠️ Reproduction and distribution prohibited
I pull my sweatshirt back over my pants to hide my open jeans, and we head to the Kiabi clothing store. I hate shopping, and I'm forced to go. There's no other option. Staying with these uncomfortable open jeans isn't an option either. My dad isn't particularly comfortable in this type of store either. It was always my mom who took us shopping, or she went alone and brought back clothes for us to try on.
Once we're inside the store, we look for the boys' section, and it's easy to find; the sign is right there on the right wall. Walking around with this diaper and these too-tight jeans makes me feel like a cowboy or even a duck. I can't wait to take it off after the appointment for my registration at the daycare center.
Once we arrive in the boys' clothing section, we start looking for sweatpants. Usually, I let my mom handle this, but now I'm actively searching. The sooner we find them, the sooner we can leave.
"Is this one?" I ask, showing it to my dad.
"What size is it?"
"8 years," I say after checking the tag.
"Too small. Given your size, you should probably go for 10 years, but to ensure the diaper fits comfortably underneath, we might go for 12 years. Your diaper will be better concealed if the pants are a little loose."
Dad says this quite loudly, and a lady nearby turns and looks at us.
"Dad, speak more quietly!"
"Sorry, Simon, I didn't realize we weren't alone."
Both of us select three or four sweatpants in the desired sizes and then make our way to the fitting rooms.
"Should I come into the fitting room with you?" Dad asks.
"I can do it on my own, you know."
"Then come out and show me each one so I can see how they fit."
So I enter the fitting room with the different sweatpants, which I hang on the wall coat rack. I take off my shoes and put them aside. Wearing a diaper leads to quite a few moments where you need to undress. Next is my jeans, which I take off and put on the stool.
Again, I see that little boy in the fitting room mirror, his diaper peeking out from under his underwear. I feel sorry for him and prefer not to look at him anymore. So I take the first pair of sweatpants and put them on. Putting them on is much easier than jeans, and I easily pull them up over my diaper and underwear.
As someone who likes to be well-dressed, I look like a sack of potatoes in this outfit. The black sweatpants are quite roomy, but they are undeniably more comfortable than jeans. I exit the fitting room, and unlike when I went in, there are many people around my dad.
"So, how does it look on you?" he asks.
"It works, at least, but I don't look like much."
"It's true that I've rarely seen you in sweatpants," he laughs while looking at me.
Dad then lifts my sweatshirt to examine me.
"You can't see much. It conceals what's underneath quite well."
I look down and immediately notice that my diaper is sticking out over the sweatpants. I quickly make my sweatshirt fall back down to cover my diaper.
Dad then makes me turn around and checks the label on the sweatpants at the back.
"This one is size 12," he says. "I think there was the same sweatpants in a size 10; try it and come back."
I go back in, change into the other sweatpants, and return quickly.
"It looks much better on you," Dad says. "It's less 'sack of potatoes,' as you put it. What do you think?"
"I prefer it too," I say. "It's a bit more fitted. You're sure it won't show through?"
"Honestly, barely, but if nobody knows, it won't be visible. Let's take this one. Try the others, the size 10 ones. We need to buy at least one more."
I try on the other sweatpants one by one, and with my dad's input, we eliminate several: too small, too tight, too light.
"You're going to keep wearing this one," he tells me as I come out with the last pair. "It fits you really well. Give me the other sweatpants and your jeans."
I do as my dad asks, and after he puts the items we're not taking back in their place, we head to the checkout. Dad has the other pair of sweatpants and my jeans in his hands.
"But Simon, where are the diapers? Where's the pack we bought?"
Indeed, we don't have it, and after a quick reflection, I think we left it at Burger King.
"I think we left it on the bench," I say.
"I hope it's still there. Well, let's check out. Once the cashier scans the tag on your sweatpants, you run back to Burger King and get it. We'll meet in front of Kiabi."
"Don't you prefer to go get it?"
"Come on, Simon, a little bit of courage. We're also running out of time to get to the car, make the journey, and park. We don't want to risk being late and missing your registration at the daycare center."
We quickly check out, and Dad places a pair of sweatpants in front of the cashier.
"Hello, ma'am," my dad says. "I'm also buying the sweatpants that my son is wearing, and I have his jeans here in my hands."
"Hello, gentlemen," she says. "Turn around, young man," she says kindly, "I need to see the label to scan the barcode."
I do as she asks and move closer to her. I feel her pull the sweatpants slightly backward because she's a bit far away. I can't help but imagine that she must be able to see my diaper; there's no other explanation.
I hear a beep, indicating that the item has been scanned correctly.
"There you go, my boy, all set," she says.
She initially greeted me as if I were a young man with a "hello, gentlemen," and now she's calling me a "boy." It's clear she saw my diaper, and as she smiles at me, I blush with embarrassment.
While scanning the second pair of sweatpants, she leans closer and says softly:
"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I can also tell you that there are many children wearing diapers in this store, and some much older than you."
She didn't have to say that, but it's particularly comforting to hear.
"Thank you," I say.
"You're welcome," she replies with a smile. "That will be €19.98, please," she tells my dad this time.
As soon as the payment is made, I rush back to Burger King. I notice that walking in these sweatpants is much more comfortable than in my jeans. I rarely wear them, but they are so soft. With the jeans no longer restricting my movements, I can feel my diaper more between my legs. The sensation is strange, but not unpleasant.
I enter Burger King and go to where we were sitting. A mother with her two young children is sitting there. She must see that I'm looking for something on the bench and calls out to me:
"Are you looking for the diaper pack that was on the bench?"
"Uh... yes."
The two children, a boy and a girl of about 4 and 5, watch me.
"I brought it to the front near the cash registers. Look, you can see it from here, on the counter, all the way to the left."
Indeed, looking toward the cash registers, I can see it. I'll need to summon up the courage to retrieve it, and I don't have much time.
There's a crowd waiting at the cash registers, and there are only a few servers. If I wait, I risk blending in with all the adults present, and they might think I'm with one of them. I must gather my courage.
"Excuse me," I say to one of the servers who doesn't seem to hear me.
"Excuse me," I repeat louder.
"Yes, what can I do for you?" the server asks.
"I'd like the... the package that's there."
"Oh, yes, someone returned it not long ago. Is this diaper package for you?"
The gentleman the server was serving looks at me, and probably others behind me.
"Yes... it's... for my imaginary little brother."
This lie, I hope, will make others think that these are not my diapers but belong to my imaginary little brother.
"Take the package," the server replies, resuming his order with the gentleman.
I step closer to the package and try to grab it. I stand on my tiptoes because it's slightly out of my reach. My 4 feet 7 inches (1.40 meters) stature allows me to touch the package but not grab it.
"Look, Mom," a voice says from behind me, "the boy in front is wearing a diaper."
Hearing that sentence is terrible, and I force myself not to run away. If only I were the only one who heard it, but no, a quick glance behind me confirms it. Several people heard it and have their eyes on me. I realize I made a big mistake by raising my arms. My sweatshirt no longer conceals the top of my sweatpants, and since my diaper is peeking out of my underwear, people were able to see it.
I'm blushing with embarrassment and almost ready to cry as I lower my gaze.
"I'll help you," says the mother of the young girl who made that statement.
I see her stepping forward and taking the package, which she hands to me.
"Thank you," I say before running away.
No one must have believed that these diapers were for my little brother, as they saw that I was wearing one. And to think that I'm wearing one even though I don't need to, it's just for a silly appointment.
I quickly find my dad, and I start crying in front of him. He asks me what's wrong and squats down to my level to talk to me. I must be even less than the 7-year-old kid I saw in the mirror earlier, with his diaper. I try to calm down and respond to my dad, who's asking me what happened.
"It's your fault," I say angrily and loudly. "Everyone saw that I was wearing a diaper."
"First, I invite you not to shout because now everyone around us knows too. And second, I remind you that it was your choice to go to this childcare center and not to your grandparents."
"To the childcare center, yes, but not to wear a diaper."
"One didn't come without the other," Dad replies calmly. "Come on, pull yourself together; it's time to go now."
Shortly after, we get in the car, and while fastening my seatbelt, I notice that my diaper is peeking out again and visible.
I really need to do something to prevent this from happening all the time. Maybe I can find a slightly larger t-shirt to tuck into my sweatpants.
Anyway, I hate this diaper; it has already caused me several problems: at the supermarket, when we bought the sweatpants, and also at Burger King. Luckily, there's that online game console in sight; otherwise, I think I would have given up on this choice and gone to my grandparents' house.
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