Yesterday two lovely gentlemen came to the house to clean and inspect our fireplaces. They were very nice and even laughed when I explained that they needed to keep the new floors spotless and that any dirt on them might result in Husband divorcing me. About half way thorough their process of shoving prickly things up the chimney and sucking out the dead animal bones and ash, Husband sent me a text asking if they were keeping the new floors clean. He likes to micro manage from afar and, regardless of what I say, he likes to see evidence so I took my handy iPhone in to the room in order to send photo proof that the floors were indeed clean and protected. The larger gentleman was holding the ShopVac while the bearded one shoved the pipe thingy up the chimney. Standing, as I was, in the doorway of the room, I could not help seeing the larger gentleman’s very generous um, - there is no better visual way to put this – butt crack. His pants had fallen to what had to be a very uncomfortable and dangerous low and his cheeks were almost fully exposed. I was in shock.
And yet, despite my distress, I managed to take a picture and send it to husband. And then post same picture on Facebook, cropped so the poor guy’s butt was prominently displayed. And I wrote in the caption: In my house right now. Jealous Husband? Anyone?
My friends were suitably impressed with the crack. They replied with witty comments. They posted similarly revealing pictures. Someone put a link to a guy who has no butt crack. It was funny.
Until it wasn’t.
Until I started thinking what I would feel like if someone took a picture of me with an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction - without me knowing. And posted it on social media - without me knowing. And people made witty comments - without me knowing. And what if I then I found out? I would not like it one bit. In fact, I’m pretty sure it would ruin my year, my life even. What if the lovely gentleman with waist challenged pants found out I’d put a picture of his butt crack up for all to see. And what if he saw my snarky comment asking if anyone was jealous that they weren’t there to witness it? With that post, with that picture, I was suddenly a Mean Girl in a way I’d never thought I would be. And I didn’t like the way it made me feel. I didn’t feel funny at all.
I deleted the picture and the post.
And then I wondered, why is it I’m able to tell someone they have pepper in their teeth or a bat in their cave and not tell the poor guy that his pants were so low I could safely park my bike in his rear end? Or any of the other very witty but wrong things my friends suggested I say. If he were a kid, I would have pulled his pants up. I would have made a joke out of it. I would have acknowledged it and moved on. But as a grown man, in my house on a job, at what point do I say to him, “Dude. I can see your all of butt cheeks and it’s not okay.” Before he lugged the heavy ShopVac down the stairs? Or after he was manhandling the ladder onto the roof of his truck? How wrong would it been of me to pull his pants up the way I might pull up a toddlers? And I say this knowing he pulled this pants up repeatedly. Just like the pants of a toddler, they just didn’t stay.
Yesterday was a moral fail for me. Today, I’ll try to do better.
And yet, despite my distress, I managed to take a picture and send it to husband. And then post same picture on Facebook, cropped so the poor guy’s butt was prominently displayed. And I wrote in the caption: In my house right now. Jealous Husband? Anyone?
My friends were suitably impressed with the crack. They replied with witty comments. They posted similarly revealing pictures. Someone put a link to a guy who has no butt crack. It was funny.
Until it wasn’t.
Until I started thinking what I would feel like if someone took a picture of me with an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction - without me knowing. And posted it on social media - without me knowing. And people made witty comments - without me knowing. And what if I then I found out? I would not like it one bit. In fact, I’m pretty sure it would ruin my year, my life even. What if the lovely gentleman with waist challenged pants found out I’d put a picture of his butt crack up for all to see. And what if he saw my snarky comment asking if anyone was jealous that they weren’t there to witness it? With that post, with that picture, I was suddenly a Mean Girl in a way I’d never thought I would be. And I didn’t like the way it made me feel. I didn’t feel funny at all.
I deleted the picture and the post.
And then I wondered, why is it I’m able to tell someone they have pepper in their teeth or a bat in their cave and not tell the poor guy that his pants were so low I could safely park my bike in his rear end? Or any of the other very witty but wrong things my friends suggested I say. If he were a kid, I would have pulled his pants up. I would have made a joke out of it. I would have acknowledged it and moved on. But as a grown man, in my house on a job, at what point do I say to him, “Dude. I can see your all of butt cheeks and it’s not okay.” Before he lugged the heavy ShopVac down the stairs? Or after he was manhandling the ladder onto the roof of his truck? How wrong would it been of me to pull his pants up the way I might pull up a toddlers? And I say this knowing he pulled this pants up repeatedly. Just like the pants of a toddler, they just didn’t stay.
Yesterday was a moral fail for me. Today, I’ll try to do better.
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