I pulled into the parking lot at work this morning to see a grown woman, easily sixty years old, sitting on the side of a raised planting bed, shirt pulled up, scrutinizing her navel. I mean her chin was on her chest, and she was prodding at her abdomen for some reason, although I wasn't close enough to see exactly what the reason may have been. I couldn't be more pleased about my nearsightedness.
When she heard my car, she covered herself, but as I was parking she went right back to what she was doing. I know this because when I got out of the car, I saw she had her shirt hiked up again for another look. I felt like I'd stumbled upon a man peeing in an alley. This woman was sitting in front of my building, as though she were doing nothing more intimate than making a phone call. Why am I the one who feels embarrassed?
Later, coming out of the common rest room in center of our office plaza, I happened upon a man's actual ass. There is a gentleman who leases an office near ours who commonly sits on a bench in the breezeway to smoke a cigar and mess around on his smart phone. Today, for some reason, he was sitting on another of these stupid raised planting beds, leaning over to peer into his phone. This left a rather impressive and compulsory view of his butt to anyone coming from west of the shrubbery. That end of the plaza, incidentally, includes a psychiatrist's office. No risk for lasting damage there.
Don't tell me, gentlemen, that you are unaware of the exposure of your buttocks to the air in the case of the proverbial plumber's crack. That guy had to know he was a little too-well ventilated. And what, short of a stab wound, would be worthy of public examination of one's bare midsection. Why is it that people don't feel the need to keep their private business private? Am I the only one disturbed by this? I'm not that dainty. I talk about sex, drugs, and body parts with people every day, for legitimate, clinical reasons. But I don't need to see it in the courtyard, people.
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