Happy Thanksgiving from my bottom.

Thanksgiving with my family varies little from year to year. It reliably involves several cases of wine, several cutthroat games of Scrabble, an extraordinary quantity of pig-derived meat products, and my mother commenting on the visibility of my ass.

(To be fair, this describes most time spent with my family. It is identifiable as Thanksgiving because there is a turkey in the middle of the table.)

This year I decided to be proactive about my mother's commentary on my ass. Due to the particular contours of my body (extraordinarily short torso, phenomenally high waist), my pants like to fall down and expose what we will euphemistically refer to as "butt cleavage."

I generally compensate for this by attempting to wear longer shirts, avoiding thong underwear, and frequently hiking my pants up in what is probably an extremely unsexy way. My mother would like me to compensate for this by wearing my pants extremely high up, aided by a belt. I asked her once to show me where on my body the top of my pants should hit and she literally indicated an area above the bottom of my bra. Clearly my mother has not read Vogue for a while. Or, perhaps, given the new trend for extremely high-waisted pants, she is reading Vogue far more closely than I give her credit for.

Suffice to say I do not really take my mom's advice on this matter. (Though I did succumb to sartorial pressure and bought a pair of high-waisted jeans a month ago; unsurprisingly for my particular proportions, they weren't high-waisted enough, and after about 10 minutes my ass was, again, visible.) But while I might disagree with her methods, I do, for the sake of decency, acknowledge her point.

About twenty minutes ago I was crouched over on the floor at my parents' house trying to plug something in. This is not, like, a regular position for me. It is sort of the posture one strikes when one is trying to console a crying toddler who is hiding under a chair, or maybe when one is wearing a nice skirt but the only sitting-down option is the ground and one doesn't want to get grass stains on silk chiffon. It was a squat, basically, but it involved certain machinations that caused my pants to fall down a little and I could tell, thanks to cold air where three seconds previous there had been no cold air, that I was channeling a plumber.

My mom walked into the room. "Helen," she said.

"Don't say it," I said.
"Say what?"
"Don't say anything about my butt."
"How do you know that's what I was going to say?"
"I know. I just know."
"I just need to tell you something, that's all, just one thing."
Here she made a crab-claw gesture. "This much. This much of your butt. Is this considered attractive back in New York?"

I sighed and plugged in whatever it was I was plugging in.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.


nadarine said...

don't feel too awkward- that's my butt too. Long tanks and high-waisted jeans!

(my lack of hips means gravity will always win. sigh.)

RW said...

I don't have a problem with my pants falling down, I have this really cool pouch that sort of hangs over my belt and holds everything steady.

Marcin said...

Consider wearing dresses, possibly with jeans, possibly tucked into your jeans.

Avitable said...

That's why I don't wear pants.

Marc said...

My mom seems to think at 25 years of age my hair is still her property. At her behest, practically short of her dying wish, she has forbid me from cutting it to my desired length.

She also notes when my beard is to long, and when my selson blue isn't working to maximum efficiency.

It's a common disease Helen... all jewish mother os our parents generation are succept to... I call it... Annoyance. ;)

EL said...

I, naturally, second the dress-over-jeans suggestion. Happy Thanksgiving, to you *and* your ass.