Before I begin this installment of “things that bug Bettie”, I’d like to offer up a small disclaimer. I was denied my Monday morning coffee today and since that early morning snub I’ve been in a bit of a foul mood. Traffic disasters and early rising will do that to me.
Stranger-butt incident #1:
For lunch today I decided to venture to Meijer to grab a salad and a yogurt instead of hitting up a drive-thru. Hold your applause, I have non-healthy reasons for this choice. The brakes in my car are at it again, or at least something that sounds just as sinister as my brakes sounded a few months ago. That, coupled with my car’s general hoarder-stash state keeps me away from most drive-thrus with cocky teens at the helm. So, I pulled into the Meijer parking lot and parked next to what I thought was an unassuming sedan, only to be met with an old woman’s gigantic lycra-clad rear end when I opened my door and glanced to my left. To her, she was simply rifling through her passenger seat. Perhaps for rogue coupons, perhaps for a touch of chapstick. To me, however, she was waggling her dimpled rump mere inches from my face and there was but a thin, thin layer of stressed out lycra between us. I nearly lost my appetite and turned around. Nearly.
Stranger-butt incident #2:
While recovering from the previous eyeful and walking into the automatic doors (that never open in time), I trained my eyes on the rear of the man in front of me. I don’t know why I punish myself. Perhaps it’s the lack of religion in my life. Nah. Anyway, this man was wearing normal man-pants. The kind that eliminate even the idea of an ass and alert onlookers to the very real possibility of sagging “tighty whities”. As I was musing to myself about this “thack” phenomenon amongst men, I noticed what appeared to be a long piece of yarn hanging from his right (imaginary) butt cheek. It wasn’t attached by anything. There was no note pinned by a caring loved one to remind him to do laundry or buy another pair of pants or whatever a note pinned to your bum would say. It was just hanging there, swaying in the breeze that was created by his assless vortex. I must have been pretty entranced by this dangling piece of butt-yarn because I followed it three aisles past where I needed to be and had to do that thing where you stop, look at a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, mutter something about “the wrong shape…” and then turn on your heel back to the produce.
Stranger-butt Incident #3:
On my way out of the store I thought I had escaped the strange sequence of other people’s butts and was enjoying the view of a really cute pair of boots. They were tromping through the snow in front of me and I was about to say something to their owner when my eyes moved up the spandexed legs to what I’m calling a butt. It was like a butt, only sadder. Not sad in the sense that others would find that representation of a bum to be sad. But, the bum itself was sad. It was experiencing the emotion of sadness and had the tears to prove it. It was frowning and there was a large, wet patch where I assume the tears had gathered. Dear gos, let them be tears. Her yoga pants (that had NEVER seen the inside of a yoga studio) were doing their best to disguise the anguish but we all know, yoga pants aren’t known for their ability to leave anything to the imagination, including the shape and size of any and all genitalia. And apparently the liquid secretions of the area as well.
I’m not sure if this entire outing was one of those, “I have a red car and now all I see are red cars” experiences, but I’ll thank gos to never have one again. As if the three rears of strangers weren’t enough to leave me shuddering for the rest of the afternoon, I was treated to one final vision on my drive back to work. I was slowing to a stop at a yellow light when I made the fatal mistake of glancing again to my left and was met with the hunched body of a dog and the loaf that was about to be pinched into the snowy grass. Yes, that’s right. A pooping dog.