From the window of a car, I caught a glimpse of something I hated. I had certainly always hated it but was only made aware of this fact very suddenly.
The car that was carrying me to my dinner approached a teenage couple from behind. They were walking together up the hill, she pushing a mountain bike and he simply walking. I looked at them casually, took it all in, turned my head back to the road and became filled with the most unnecessary bile imaginable.
She was wearing a short sweater and a pair of black footless tights as pants as girls sometimes do. These tights clearly strained to cover her lower body. The task of stretching around a frame too large for too long had rendered these particular tights completely transparent.
Which is to say that I could see her ass skin.
The first wave of my reaction was to feel embarrassment for this girl. She must not realize. It’s takes a lot of intention to look at one’s own ass. Or worse, she knew and for some reason, her life was situated in such a way that she doesn’t care.
Next came my anger at this boy, for no other reason other than the fact that he was there. My knowledge of teenage boys told me that he’d glanced at her ass at least one time that day or another day when she was wearing these unfortunate “pants.” Could he not have mentioned the transparency?
And finally came the righteous and desperate insistence that I could not be this girl. “I am an intelligent adult woman,” I told myself over and over.
And then, once the car had been parked, I walked from it to the restaurant bent over at nearly a 90 degree angle as I held my skirt firmly over my ass; totally confident that I would never look that foolish. I couldn’t possibly. No way. Because I am an intelligent adult woman.