Fluffy Tufts

Not to belabor the point, but I learned that boyshorts really aren’t shorts, they’re more like thong hybrids, and the tanga is just one of those things that makes no sense at all. To clarify, just in case anyone was as confused as I was. And look! A panty primer! (Seriously, I found it very helpful, and I think what I was asking about is the “thongboy,” which sounds vaguely dirty.) (Also, why can’t it be an underpants primer? And further, Leane doesn’t like underpants OR underwear, so I ask: what do you call them? I wish we were in the UK and called them knickers. That’s my preference. Not that you asked.)

Oddly, this is the perfect segue, for while I waiting for my coffee at Starbucks this morning, an older woman was sitting with her back facing me, and her pants–clearly not fitting her properly– had slid down a little … as in, I could see her whole ass. Her whole, unadorned, naked ass just resting on the Starbucks seat. So the question is this: what would you do? Would you–could you–walk away, leaving her entirely nude ass exposed to the elements, not to mention picking up unknown bacteria, and um, leaving some of her own behind, I’m sure? Or would you say something?

There’s no denying that there are pros and cons of each, not the least of which is the mean-spirited bit of humor knowing that other people were very likely catching this whole-assery as well, and my God, it was…well, it was kind of funny, although I don’t like to admit it, but when was the last time you saw someone with their pants down and absolutely no knowledge of it? And further, how does that happen? I understand that when you get older, your faculties become a little dull, but she seemed to be relatively well-dressed and highly functioning, and she was carrying on a conversation, for chrissake.

I said something. I had to. How could I live with myself? It’s worth nothing that had she been a man, I wouldn’t have said a word. Once, many years ago, I was having lunch at a Taco Bell when a man, who had clearly just come back from a run, sat at a nearby booth and (oh my God) one of his testicles escaped the protective confines of his running shorts, and I said nothing because … well, I mean, it could have been an invitation for all I knew, plus I don’t understand the pain of a rogue nutsac (sack? Experts seem divided). But this was a woman–granted, an older woman of my grandmother’s generation–and we’ve all been the victim of baring something accidentally, be it a boob or a pair of underpants. (Granted, not a whole ass, but still.)

I don’t think she agreed. First of all, she was nearly deaf, and when I tried to whisper that perhaps her pants were slipping a bit in the back and she might want to take a peek, she yelled “WHAT? WHAT?” in response, which required me to speak up, and finally she yelled at me, “SO YOU ARE SAYING MY SKIN IS SHOWING BACK THERE?” This, of course, made the entire restaurant turn to stare, and at that point I just left, whole ass and all, because her perfunctory pull-up did absolutely nothing to stave the flow of crack, but no one can say I didn’t try my best, because I did, I really did.

All of this happened, by the way, before 9 a.m., and the rest of the day continued along uneventfully, except did I forget to tell you guys that I’ve been back to Bath & Body Works three more times? For nothing good, NOTHING GOOD AT ALL, except what is now an embarrassing collection of lotions that I don’t really use? It’s a strange sort of compulsion that I am unable to stop.

And finally, I wanted to say thank you, because Andrea is right: you guys are hilarious, and I’m very grateful for my smallish, tight-knittish readership and commenters (and if you’re reading, and not commenting, why? I mean, I understand, because I am a sucky commenter too, it’s just that I want to know who you are so that I can say hi!). You are honestly the highlight of my morning reading almost every day–not just your comments, but your blogs, because I read them all, I really do. That being said, if you don’t want to or just generally don’t comment, that’s okay too. I appreciate that you’re here with me anyway.

Not to go all…meta (HATE) on you, but it really irks me when writers of any kind (bloggers, media, whatever) demonstrate a regular level of superior disdain for their readers, because no matter how cruddy assvice and crappy e-mails can feel, for every shitbox of a reader, there are oodles of nice ones, and why, just why, insult the nice ones? And further, in the case of a paid job, and that totally includes blogging in some cases, aren’t those readers–even the crappy ones–the reason that you get a paycheck? I’m will admit, it happens to me so infrequently (at least here, because no lie, you’re the nicest group of people I’ve ever encountered) that I can’t entirely judge, but it mystifies me nonetheless.

Happy Wednesday!

*Cocteau Twins. I’ve been on a four-month kick and listening to them constantly.

75 comments June 19th, 2007