By my butt she knew me

This column was originally published in October, 2010. Looking it over today, I realize it's somewhat politically incorrect, so Let the Reader Beware and all. 

I was involved in a strange situation a few weeks ago. There’s no delicate way to say this, so I’ll just lay it on the line: Somebody identified me by my butt.

I was jogging down the street, minding my own business – a euphemism for panting so profusely that I sounded like a caller to one of those 1-900 lines where customers talk to Puerto Rican honeys who are really 800-pound sumo wrestlers with effeminate voices – when a cyclist passed me from behind and commented, “I like your columns. I can relate.”

At first, I wasn’t sure if she was relating to my panting or my writing, but I eventually settled on the latter. It’s always nice to hear from a fan, so I wheezed something in response, maybe a thank you that sounded vaguely like “please call an ambulance” as she rolled off.

It was only later that I wondered how she knew who I was. To be honest, these days I don’t look much like the disembodied head that’s floating somewhere to the right of these words. That photo is more than a few years old, and the hair on top has gone the way of the mastodon and the saber-toothed tiger.

I wasn’t wearing anything that openly identified me, and I had never laid eyes on the cyclist before. Seeing as how she identified me from behind, all that’s left is my gluteus maximus. (Oddly, the spell check on Microsoft Word doesn’t like “maximus” and suggests a) “maximum us,” as in, “I don’t want to be alone anymore, baby, let’s have a relationship and make it about maximum us” – or b) “maximums,” as in “I’ve used all my credit cards to the maximums, dude.” Weird.

Anyway, by my butt she knew me.

This is worrisome for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that I want to be known for my mind and my opinions, not for something as shallow as how nice my rump looks as it bobs up and down inside sweat-soaked gym shorts, just below my middle-aged love handles and right above my spindly, hairy legs.

To make matters worse, more and more people have taken to commenting that they’ve seen me running. Granted, none of them has owned up to identifying me by my rump, but who would? Now that my anonymous cycling fan has planted the seed in my head, it’s sprouting weird butt roots in all my running conversations. In other words, I’m beginning to suspect that my behind is behind many of these public sightings.

I’ve become self-conscious as a result, and have taken to wearing sweatpants and longer hooded sweatshirts in the attempt to cover up what has become my defining feature.

Is this the hell of life as a super model, always known for one’s shapely curves and cute dimples? Oh, the toxicity of our modern, superficial society, when a pale, gangly guy like me is afraid to appear in public in running shorts, exposing his natural endowments to a world set on exploiting him.

How many clandestine pictures have been snapped without my knowledge? How many websites are devoted to exploiting my fanny? If I knew, I’d likely be appalled.

On second thought, why should I feel compelled to bury my assets beneath shapeless clothing? I’m not the one who should be embarrassed, forced to hide his light, such as it is, beneath a bushel basket. It’s everybody else who should be cowed by their unabashed staring, their reduction of my gifts to the lowest common denominator, their objectification of my masculinity, the likes of which the world hasn’t seen since Tiny Tim last tiptoed through the tulips, ukulele in hand.

Maybe my new philosophy of dress should be the same as my advice to those who would seek to exploit my derriere: Butt out.

Of course, that could stop traffic, and I don’t want to be responsible, so “butt in” is probably the safest course of action.