While we’re on the subject of body positivity and big bottoms, I’d like to share a cautionary tale.
One year I was scheduled to lead a group of little girls on a camping trip in the North Georgia mountains. The evenings would be chilly.
While shopping for a fleece pullover, I spotted the cutest pair of jeans on the clearance rack. Miraculously, the jeans were my size. Then I read the fine print on the hang tag: Ultra Low Rise.
Worth a try, I thought, as I yanked them on. My waist was like bread dough. Fluffy white mounds kept rising out of the waistband. I kept mushing them back down, to no avail. Clearly, in your late thirties you retain more than water.
Then I turned around. Plumbers Crack doesn’t adequately describe the sight. Think: Swedish fjord.
However, I loved everything else about the jeans: the whisper-soft denim, the magical spandex blend, the heavy stitching that acted as a discreet guardrail for my thighs.
But the waistband was too low. Ultra low.
Suddenly, I had an epiphany.
(I always regret epiphanies.)
I could buy the fleece pullover and only wear the jeans while wearing that top. The fleece hung well past my bottom line. I could be both comfortable and modest. Ultra Low Rise would be my secret.
Fast forward to the second night at camp. I had run out of ideas to entertain the girls. I had already taught them how to ding-dong ditch, although ding-dong-ditching a tent requires more creativity and we may have been mistaken for a bear once or twice. But oh, the memories! If you’ve never seen a troop of nine-year-olds racing down a mountain path carrying flashlights and running for their lives, well, you should have been my co-leader.
Except for the moment this next thing happened.
We decided to build a fire and roast marshmallows.
My co-leader and I selected a site near a Park Ranger’s station and the public restrooms. She got the fire started as I hauled our supplies to the site.
The girls wiggled and danced with anticipation of an actual marshmallow roast. Their first ever!
At the edge of the seating area near the fire, I dropped the last load of supplies, then bent over to rummage through the pile looking for the marshmallows.
As I bent over, my fleece top fell forward and up, exposing the fluffy white muffins.
AT THAT EXACT MOMENT, a wasp flew down my pants. Into the fjord.
I jerked straight up, sealing it in between my cheeks.
It stung me. I screamed and swatted my rear end.
It stung again.
I screamed, swatted my rear end, and added a hop.
The wasp stung me repeatedly as I danced around the fire, swatting myself in the rear and screaming.
The girls all stood slack-jawed, watching.
“What’s wrong with your mom?” one of them asked my daughter. “Is this a thing she does?”
No one moved or offered assistance. I was in unbearable pain and completely panicked.
I bolted for the public restroom, still screaming. The other leader screamed my name, asking me what was wrong. I was unable to speak. My girl ran behind me yelling, “Why are you doing that? I don’t like this game!”
I yanked opened the door to the Women’s Restroom at the same moment a Park Ranger opened the door to his office, stepping out into the melee.
Once inside, I fumbled with my button and zipper before wrenching my pants off. “A wasp got stuck in between my cheeks,” I managed to gasp to my daughter. “It keeps stinging me!”
“Ma’am, this is the Park Ranger,” the poor guy yelled through the closed door. “Are you all right? Do you require assistance?”
“Stay back!” I screamed like a savage. “Don’t come in!”
Next, my hands went for my underwear.
Terrified the wasp was going to fly out from my bottom and sting her, too, my daughter turned and flung the door open to run away.
The wasp fell to the ground, dead. Flat as a pancake. Perhaps he died happy. I don’t really know.
What I do know is that a Park Ranger got a lesson in first aid that will chill him for years to come. He may have made the sign of the cross, or been reaching for the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. I don’t really know that, either.
“I see your mom’s butt!” someone yelled.
My daughter slunk away from the crowd, the night stars reflecting the hostile glare in her eyes. I had ruined her life. Or at least the part that involved outdoor activities with other people.
The Park Ranger grabbed the door and shoved it closed.
“Sh…sh…should I bring you some ice?” he stammered.
“And plenty of it!” I snapped.
My cheeks were swelling up. I would never be able to get those jeans back on. Plus I had to pack my cheeks with so much ice that even the crew of the Titanic couldn’t miss me.
“And can you ask my daughter to find me some pants I can wear?” I called out, wiping the sweat from my forehead. I stared at the underwear and jeans crumpled on the floor at my feet, together with the flattest wasp I had ever seen.
Turns out, glute muscles are also an incredibly powerful flower-press.
Not that I was going to suggest that to the campers.
I wouldn’t want to see that badge.
Not incidentally, that was my last time leading a camping trip. And I have never, ever bought or worn ultra low anything since that day.
And so, while I lecture my daughters on modesty, I always break out in a cold sweat, remembering that fateful evening.
The modesty test in our household is simply this: would you want to get stung on that part of the body?
If not, keep it covered.
And please, friends, for your own safety, beware the Ultra Low Rise. Mother Nature always gets the last laugh.