Childhood memories. You just have to love them.
Yes, I confess. My father was a virtual master at the deplorable showing of ass crack.
Ugh. The fashion coupe de grace disgrace. Like the trailer trash welcoming committee must be hiding in the bushes. Waiting silently for the cue to drag you on Jerry Springer’s stage. To reveal a sordid secret.
Dad’s crack secret wasn’t actually a secret to begin with. That split screen was a fact. Plain as the light of day and like the crack of dawn, the predictable appearance of the crack of Dad loomed on the posterior horizon. He didn’t do crack in private, he did crack in public. For the world to see, albeit sporadically. Like whenever he crouched down or bent over.
It was like Dad lost his ass in an unfortunate accident nobody spoke of. Truth is, neither my brothers or my sister can recall any backroom gossip explaining it. Because when he was standing, Dad frequently tugged on his pants. Not that they would ever fall down mind you but, due to his condition he was continually in a state of adjustment. He probably wasn’t even aware of it. But it seemed that somewhere along the line, he had lost most of the ass that may have once held up his pants.
He’d be in the garage crouched down welding. Sparks would be flying like the fourth of July. Rooster’s tail style. One to the left and one to the right. Protective welding helmet down. And, there was the ass crack. Peeking out between a dark work shirt and a pair of jeans. He never worried about the sparks in the crack. We used to laugh about it.
It was never a style that was trendy then, nor will it ever be. Not even in a million years.
Dad died several years ago. Unrelated to ass crack exposure.
….we'll miss that ass.