It was already too late. Chezky was oblivious to his inappropriate attire, joining the inner circle of dancing, before the eyes of one and all
Chezky’s bar mitzvah was right after Succos. Talk about swinging emotions. Yamim Noraim had me davening so hard, drenching the pages of my machzor as I pleaded for his future. Then we segued into Succos, and my tefillos became more practical. Please, Hashem, could we possibly get though Yom Tov in one piece — and maybe manage to pull off the bar mitzvah, too?
Simchas Torah I was standing during hakafos, eyes seeking, always seeking, to keep tabs on Chezky. My brain did this every second of the day. Now I hadn’t seen him for a few moments, so I was on alert. Then I saw him. And wished I hadn’t.
Obviously, something had happened to Chezky’s pants. Did he spill something on them? Had they ripped? Whatever it was, he’d managed to skip out of shul, and he’d run home to change… into his four-year-old brother’s pants. All without anyone noticing.
Well, they were noticing now. Chezky was still a very skinny teen, and the pants managed to almost make it to his waist. But several inches of skin showed between his socks and hems. Earth, please swallow me up!
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