Beneath

the

Pant 

She must have had a diaper on. Under the large straw sunhat, Covid mask, neon orange blazer, long white sundress, ankle socks, and chunky New Balance sneakers, was in no way just a bra and underwear. It’s only worth dwelling on because of how fascinating her overall appearance was, the layering of items she chose to coat her body with. So little skin was showing, you couldn't help but wonder what was underneath it all. A diaper felt sensical because everything else about her fell into the stark overlap where those who are ancient meet those who are infants. The diaper aligned with the circular aspect of life; it was the dot that connected the circle. We all become more and more infantile, and bras and underwear are only a phase just like everything else. Maybe she had a skimpy lace thong underneath. As much as there would be hilarity in that shock factor, I think it would disappoint me. She was our human cycle finishing and beginning all at once, and so she must have been wearing a diaper. 

She was invigorated by life, emulating a kind of youth that can only come from within. I first laid eyes on Pant standing next to her Citi Bike patiently waiting for someone to peel away a bike from the full dock in front of us so she could park hers. I, too, was waiting. I felt embarrassed at my ebike, my laziness, in comparison to Pant, who, despite her physique, had been pedaling away on a real bike. She was tiny, not having to elevate the Citi Bike seat even to a level 1 raise. She wore a mask, sweaty and flimsy, but the enchanted look in her eyes revealed that she was smiling vigorously underneath it. When we exchanged eye contact, Pant beamed a bit further. Each tiny fragmented piece of her face I glimpsed, exuded excitement. I wondered what could possibly be inside the backpack that enveloped her whole back. It was no diaper bag, but a serious, black SwissGear kind of vessel. I could tell it was heavy, but didn’t appear to be weighing her down in the slightest. Where could such a character be headed? She was docking her bike, so was this her destination? 

A man in shiny blue sunglasses finishing his run unlocked a Citi Bike and freed up a spot for Pant to dock hers. I watched as she hastily put the bike away. I looked for Pant’s eyes to nod her a courteous farewell before she waddled away. Pant walked towards me, but didn’t give me her eyes. Instead, she positioned her body right next to mine, saying nothing nor looking my way.

We sat for a minute or so before I decided to speak. 

“Long wait today.” I laughed, gesturing to the bike I rested atop of. 

“I wait for you,” Pant replied. 

“Oh, you don’t have to. It’s ok” I grinned. 

“I wait.” 

And so we did.

“Busy day out in the sunny weather. Wherever you go, you wait. You bike. You wait. You wait. It is how it goes.” Pant spoke quickly and chaotically, yet she enunciated each word with intention. It was hard to hear her under the mask so I dismounted my bike to politely commit to the conversation. 

Pant and I looked each other up and down. While I sat wondering about her diaper, Pant’s thoughts took a different route. She motioned her petite arms in a curvature fashion, not in a way I had ever seen an old woman do. I wondered what on earth she could be referring to, as it couldn't possibly be my body. 

“Not too fat” her arms extended outwards. 

“Not too skinny,” her arms extended back inwards. Her gestures were ridiculously graceful. The movements were executed so slowly and the words spoken so rapidly, that I was mesmerized, my mind couldn’t quite keep up with the absurdity of her meaning. 

“But..aha!” She made large cups with her hands in front of her chest. Her own breasts didn't touch her cupped hands, as they were tucked under layers of white cotton and orange polyester. She was giggling. 

“And aha” Her hands gestured a large semicircular shape beneath her backpack. She looked so satisfied by her observation, her objectification. 

She was indeed talking about my body- the display of my figure in tight athleisure. Her remarks of neither skinny nor fat, indicating some sort of strange and unsettling gray area, is undoubtedly a reflection I, too, have been foolishly consumed by. Although there should be no necessity for labels, language or any sort of conversation associated with my body, Pant’s observation was perhaps the most objective of objectifications. Her view was panoramic, beyond the skewed gaze of sexual desire that often lurks right on the outside or the body dysmorphic, self image that often haunts on the inside. I was not sure if she made me more insecure or more confident…or if she was more impressed or more horrified by my body in its snug attire. I was sure Pant had a great sense of humor. She was right: bodies should provoke more amusement in all their fascinating shapes and stages. I smiled at the thought of her in her diaper.

“Two more minutes.” Pant sensed my awkward blush and was now stern and motherly.

“I do this bike ride every single day. It is my ride to school. English class.” She began.

“For thirty years…. I am 87 now… I have wanted to do school in New York, to learn English in New York. Finally I made it. I ride my bike. I learn each day. It is never too late for this.” 

Her sentences were not full ones, yet the way she conveyed them felt more compelling. They were snappy one liners in the most simplistic of tone, but you could feel her zealous and her spunk behind each one. 

“This was my dream. Here I am.” 

I liked hearing Pant speak, but it was her momentum and essence that really made me listen. Each time I replied, she got closer and closer to my face, growing increasingly jubilant, almost intoxicated by how thrilled she was to share her story with someone new. Someone who she knew needed to hear it that day. 

A man with a mullet came to take out a bike. It had been far more than two more minutes. 

“See not too long,” Pant said. At this point, she was close enough for an intimate slow dance with her tiny arms only having to extend slightly. What an odd sight the two of us dancing would be. 

“What is your name?” I asked, feeling this encounter would now come to an end. 

“P- A- N-T” she spelled out carefully. 

Pant came even closer to me and put her thumb up. 

“You are a good person,” she said. 

I looked under her hat, below her sweaty brows, above her mask, and found her eyes. They were innocent and wise. They were so sincere that I felt tears fill my own as ours met. 

Pant reached out and gave me a hug. I had never hugged a stranger like this before. I felt no real frame or flesh, just layers of clothing against my seemingly naked figure. It felt like holding an infant swaddled in blankets. I was protecting the delicate, but also being protected by its delicacy. 

And then we were both on our way, back into our own cycles, just as everyone else who took a bike and docked a bike before us. Pant had reached her destination, but would never cease to find a new one.