Thank you, Gap. I just bought a pair of skinny jeans that are HIGH RISE. Oh, blessed waist that sits where a waist ought to sit. I would like to buy the whole world a pair of these jeans. I’m so sick of seeing butt cracks. And I don’t care how fancy your dental floss undies are, I don’t want images in my head. It wasn’t attractive on plumbers; it isn’t attractive on you.
I’m also sick of pulling down my shirt and hiking up my pants. Because I’m pretty sure you don’t want to see my butt cleavage, either. It wasn’t pretty pre-kids. It’s not pretty now.
But, Gap, I have to tell you. Why in Thor’s name would I want to buy my daughters low-rise bikini undies? Do I want people lookin’ at their pert little bottoms? No, I do not. Do I think it’s adorable to sell my children’s sexuality at age 5, or 8, or 12? Uh, no. Do I think that pre-emergent adult behavior is cute? Well, when they sweep the floor, or fold the towels, or diaper their babies, then, yes, that’s cute. But low-rise bikini underwear? That is not cute. I don’t think this is a case of me grousing about the evils of the rising generation. This is me saying that “sexy” shouldn’t be an adjective applied to children. Ever. And the only time I wanna see kid undies is in the package or when the kid is hanging upside down on a chair singing a song about boogers.
Except my son. Right now, he’s in his 10-hour-old diaper (read: sagging to his knees), standing on the table, throwing a box around. He thinks he’s Hercules. I don’t know what’s in the box. It’s addressed to Hal and I know it isn’t a present for me because I haven’t emailed any websites with possible Easter ideas, so for all I know, Baby is breaking some valuable Man Item. But probably not. Probably it’s full of something nasty and completely useless, like Muscle Milk or extra-large foam fingers. Oh, those are sexy, let me tell you...