My ass and the rest of the world.

The invent of low-rise jeans has continued to change my life and the lives of others. More specifically, my low-rise jeans have given commuters on their morning drive down 16th St. a precious site. No matter the belt or the upright posture, I feel that cool breeze streamline down my back revealing to me just how low my tattered denims sit. I am not talking asscracksville, but maybe in the suburbs of that town. However, this is a sacrifice I am willing to make.

The thing is, I like how they fit low on the hips - even for those of us who have the hips of a 12-year-old boy. I like how they can make the ass look like two halves of a cantaloupe rather than posing the question to onlookers "where does the ass end and the back begin" - I feel these are two very separate entities.

Sadly, we have all seen when low-rise goes wrong. The current fat attack on our Nation has spanned a virtual army of low-rise wearing chubbies that..."over flow." Even the women that have great figures can suffer from this trend. These ladies want that smaller size but, as a result, the cup runneth over.

Purchasing these beauties is an art that must be mastered. I am suffering from "sag-ass" in some of mine as a result of too many times through the washer and losing a few pounds post-knee surgery. They have served me well for a number of years; however, their once melon-defining quality has been lost.

Though the thought of several hundred commuters getting a peak at the very top of my bottom is somewhat distressing (FYI - this is not a view of the grand-canyon...just a mere glimpse at the foothills) I will continue to saddle up and ride until that faithful day when someone yells at me to pack that dump truck I call an ass into some higher-slung denim.