While we were at Noodles waiting for our food, we watched a woman cleaning and restocking the beverage cooler. She was wearing some khaki pants that I liked. The more I looked, the more I liked them. They had a seam down the back, a straight leg, and a slotted cuff with a useless drawstring. They fit her close at the waist and around her ample posterior, but hung more loosely past the thigh. When she bent over, they stayed against her body. I never saw her butt crack. She stood and kneeled and squatted and bent and stretched, and through it all, her pants stayed secure. They didn't rise up her waist, seeking her brassiere and making a fault line up her rear; they didn't fall down past her hips, seeking her ankles. I was transfixed. She wasn't wearing a belt, and there was no elastic obvious. The rise seemed normal--not '80s-waisted or Brazilian-shave mandatory. What were these pants? I should have asked her.
Speaking of pants and cracks...
Kayleigh deposited a rather nice pair of jeans onto my bed this morning. "I hate them," she said. "They fit, but the rise is so low that it shows off my butt crack." I'm glad she doesn't want to show off her butt crack.
Which reminds me...
Many Christmases ago (my dad's last, actually), as we were decorating the tree at my parents' house, my mom bent from her chair to reach an ornament on the floor. Kayleigh, still a tiny thing, stood behind her. As my mom's body went forward, the back of her pants went downward. With my mom's great crevice spread before Kayleigh's wondering eyes, Kayleigh slipped her hand between those soft cheeks.
My mom rose slightly, a look of terror on her face.
"That's Grandma's butt crack," I said.
"Butt cack," Kayleigh repeated, sliding her hand out of my mom's abyss.
"Oh!" said my mother, and she started laughing. Believe me, we all did.
Eric says he'll never forget the look on my mom's face.