My bf and I have a friend that is gorgeous. And not just run-of-the-mill average gorgeous like Julia Roberts, or slutty gorgeous like Denise Richards or even exotic gorgeous like Catherine Zeta Jones. She’s gorgeous gorgeous. Imagine if Angelina Jolie, Sienna Miller, Tyra Banks, George Clooney, Zac Efron and Johhny Depp all got together and created one perfect looking child…that would be Jen.

But for all her beauty, poor Jen is still single. One night, after an evening of heavy drinking I asked her how someone with her face and body combo could not have a Brad Pitt inspired boyfriend on her arm and in her bed. “It’s too embarrassing.” she said and gulped down the last of her dirty martini. I ordered her another and by the end of that one she was ready to talk.

“I have an unusually high butt crack,” she confessed with the shame of an over-eater at a Weight Watchers meeting. I chocked on my cocktail. I thought she was going to give me some canned explanation like her hips were too big or guys are assholes. A high butt crack was a new one for me.

The rest of the night she explained how her abnormality had crippled her in the fight to bag a man. When all the other girls were flaunting their anorexic-induced, emaciated bodies under rubber band sized bikinis, Jen had to cover up her dairy-aire with a one piece suit, so as to not moon the other sunbathers. And when all her friends were flashing their tramp stamps (a tattoo on the small of a slutty girl’s back) poor Jen had to cover up, in fear that her Celtic inspired sun tattoo would look less like an homage to the goddess of light and more like a quarter being inserted into the slot of a video game machine.

It was three years ago that Jen confided in me about her Quasimodo backside and for three years I thought it was the one thing that would keep her from the American dream. That was, until this past weekend.

There’s a great neighborhood restaurant across the block from our house that my bf and I frequent. It has good food, large martinis and a broad swatch of customers. But after the housing market shit the bed and the “f” word (furlough) started being heard around my office, we cut back on our entertainment budget and now only go out for special occasions, like celebrating my bf’s latest promotion.

We walked into the restaurant and noticed that something had changed. The food still looked good and everyone at the bar was sipping on oversized martinis, but the diverse clientele seemed to have been replaced with pod people from the suburbs. Instead of a varied group of diners sitting around, talking politics, the tables were full of blonde girls all wearing the same outfit and men with gelled hair debating their thoughts on the most recent episode of “Top Chef”.

I ignored my first response to run away and we decided to stay. We were seated next to a table of identical Stepford twenty-something twits celebrating someone’s birthday. At least, I assume it was a birthday celebration. There was a cake, presents and lots of picture taking. (For my thoughts on picture taking at restaurants see “Restaurants and Photography“)

Throughout my meal I couldn’t help but notice the table of birthday girls all standing up at different times and adjusting their pants. At first I figured it was some sort of hetero mating ritual, but then it saw it. All the girls whose backside were facing me suffered from the same high butt crack affliction as my dear friend, Jen. I was about to whip out my phone and text her to say she wasn’t alone in her struggle when I noticed that I could see the top of every female’s butt crack within eye shot. And systematically, as if on a timer, they would all either stand up or wiggle around in their seats to adjust the top of their pants to just above their butt crack equators.

After throwing up in my mouth a little, it hit me: Jen and these girls didn’t suffer from high butt crack syndrome, they all just wore ill-fitting clothes.

My advice to Jen and all the other girls out there who buy pants, not to suit their body types, but instead to suit their desire to look like Heidi Klum:

Stop. You look ridiculous. Instead of channeling your inner super model, you look more like a plumber.

My advice to everyone else:

The next time you see a poor girl in ill-fitting pants below the line of demarcation, take whatever loose change you have in your pocket and aim a foul shot for the top of their butt crack. Maybe that will teach her the importance of form follows function when it comes to her clothing.

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