"So this new moon rising isn't about freedom at all, it's just another sign that the sun is setting on women's power" - Shannon Rupp
When I was but a pre-teen with mosquito bites for breasts I was schooled in the proper way a young lady should wear a bra.
"Don't let your straps hang out!" Mom tutted whilst giving the offending strap a yank.
The fact that I wore the wrong size bra for nigh on ten years is evidence that size wasn't a huge concern during my teen years. My major concern? Dodging the bra saleslady. I'll be damned if I was going to let the handsy ol' gal in the pre-teen section of the department store get her mitts (or her measuring tape!) on my mosquito bites.
Instead I'd grab a few bra sizes (all white, of course) and hide myself away in the corner dressing room. As my chest was exploding outward at a rate similar to the number of zits developing on the faces of my male peers, I always bought the smallest size bra I could squeeze my torso into. The goal was to smash my chest (I had yet to discover the wonders a sports bra works in the chest smashing arena) so my evil brothers couldn't make fun of my 'bites' that were rapidly morphing into bona fide boobies.
Once the bra was purchased, like Mom counseled, "don't let your straps hang out!"
All one had to know about bra wearing at the time was simply this; if the public can see your bra, you're doing something wrong. Either the shirt doesn't fit right or you shouldn't be wearing a bra with that particular top. If you take off the bra are your bosoms flopping about beneath the blouse like a freshly caught fish tangled in net?... Then you shouldn't be wearing that particular garment. Ever. Really. Give it to good will or use it as a dust towel.. but don't wear it again.
I never thought of applying the bra strap policy to panties, but after spending a day in Central Park beneath a bright sun and behind the even brighter moon on display courtesy of a girl strolling in front of me, it seems I should avail myself of this golden opportunity to remind the ladies about the perils of crack.
I had hoped this tacky trend had died a quick death last year, but ass flash seems to have experienced a comeback a la Madonna. The Material Girl figures prominently in the popularization of tackiness as an expression of women's sexual freedom. Shit, after being told to hide my straps only to see Madge don a metallic cone shaped bra - my mind was as blown as Bill Clinton during the Lewinsky years. Interestingly, I've not yet seen Madonna sport ass crack, so maybe she does have a smidge of good taste. On second thought, nah.
Listen up girls! Butt crack is not now, nor will it ever be the new cleavage. Unless you're name is Giselle Bundchen or Heidi Klum and you find yourself on a photoshoot for Sports Illustrated in Bora-fucking-Bora, keep your crack to yourself. Your pants are supposed to cover your cheeks and your ass spilling over the edge of your jeans like a muffin top is not sexy. It sucks. Anyone who thinks public ass crack is hot also sucks.
Did we fight for the right to wear pants all those years ago so we could flash ass? How much class can you claim when you are letting your crack hang out like Billy Bob, the plumber who yanked the soggy clump of hair from my drain last month? Why would you want to advertise ass? It looks as if your hiney is being choked by your stringy underwear and your cheeks are trying to crawl out the tops of your jeans for a gulp of fresh air. Listen... air your ass out on your own time, preferably within the confines of your boudoir.
Finally, I've come up with a sassy little saying to help guide you along the perilous journey of clothing yourself before leaving your home. Similar to Nancy Reagan and her 'Just Say No' - you will do well to remember the following four words. Make it your mantra..
FLASH ASS = NO CLASS