Ma'am Would You Please Get Your BUTT Outta My Face!

I do not -- as a rule -- write about people's hind quarters. I think I said all I have to say on the subject in the article I wrote regarding my own ("My Sagging Butt and Yours Too", May 2007 ). But as I reflect back on my recently-wrapped summer vacation, I must admit that there seemed to be a whole lotta rear ends on display at the beach, with more than a few in close proximity to my face.

I don't what it is exactly, but there is something liberating about the being at the beach and feeling the sun on your back, the sea breeze in your face and the sound of the waves in your ears. It's this very liberating effect that makes it easy for me to understand the attraction of nude beaches (of which there are quite a few in Italy). Thing is, my family and I didn't spend the summer at a nude beach. We spent the summer at (at least by Italian standards) a "regular beach." Now granted there's probably a fine line between what is and isn't being worn at the beach these days, but I kinda wish that Speedo or some of the other name brands of beach wear would put a "viewer advisory" on their beach attire. Because really, is there any sane reason for someone whose stomach is hanging down past their waistline to wear what amounts to nothing more than a g-string? Is there really a need for me to be subjected to a thong-wrapped butt that looks like it's fuel injected with cottage cheese?

Of course not. But you know what? It's a public beach and if you want to walk around looking like a kielbasa sausage in a cheese cloth, then I say "Go for it!" To quote Bikiniscience.com, I recognize and agree that "any woman may wear a bikini and that all people are beautiful." But for cryin' out loud what you please get that ass of yours -- you know, the one that looks like a glob of mozzarella cheese on steroids -- out of my face!

I want to go on record as saying I love the beach. I could spend all my waking hours on the beach and not feel one ounce of guilt. But while I'm worshipping the sun and swimming lazily in the ocean, I'm also respectful of the crowds around me (and believe me the beaches here ARE crowded). Ever since my daughter started calling me "droopy drawers" I understood that gravity was playing evil games with my hinny. So not only do I not want to see that sagging piece of meat (better known as my rear end) dragging behind me in a swim suit but I'd prefer to not subject anyone else to my hind quarters either. Hence the switch to boxer shorts or knickers or whatever the heck swim-trunks are being called nowadays.

I have to wonder if the Gods aren't looking down from above and playing games with me. One minute I'm happily snoozing away. The next minute some sumo-sized sun-worshipper drops his or her snorkel or newspaper in the sand and then bends over right in front of me to pick it up -- their billowing butt cheeks just inches from my face. What are the chances of that happening 5 or 6 times a day? Day after day. Let me tell you - a sight like that is NOT the stuff dreams are made of:

But I digress.

I also noticed there are two distinct "shifts" at the beach: I'll call the first one the A-shift. This shift is for families with small children, retirees and tourists visiting from Kansas. The A-shift usually lasts until about 2:00 in the afternoon, at which time everyone disappears and goes home to lunch. From 2:00 - 4:00 the beaches are blissfully empty and then at about 4:01 the B-shift arrives: this seems to be everyone ages 17-26 who descend on the surf and sand. Young adults -- bless 'em all - who partied until 5am, slept until 4:00pm and now are ready to ease back into the early stages of the second half of the day and repeat the party cycle yet again.

By this time, the wife and I are usually ready to head back to the ranch. Because believe me, the only thing less intriguing than having some tourists Humvee-sized butt hovering within inches of my nose, is having the tanned, firm, opposite extreme of some anonymous 18-year doing the same thing. My wife doesn't mind me tolerating the former, but she'd prefer I don't subject myself to the later!

Ahhh the joys of summer. Next June can't arrive quickly enough.