Fancy pants mean that they ride low, literally.

Suddenly, a cyclist yelled something at me as she rode past me as I cruised down Market Street. Her hair was short, and she wore one of those city helmets. Now, when I am on my bike, I get yelled at a lot. By cars for taking up the lane. By other cyclists for being too slow. By pedestrians who think that the light was green.

But a moment after she started singing (because I realized that it wasn’t yelling, it was singing), I realized what she said.

As she rode past me and swung into my lane, “Your pants are so low and I can see your ass-crack.”

Stunned, my first instinct was amusement. But the next one came almost immediately. Anger. How dare she comment on something that couldn’t be helped. I was in my aggressive cycling mood—almost required when riding downtown, but then my cautious cycling mood popped in the moment the light turned red. She zipped two blocks ahead then further as I waited for the numbers to countdown to zero. I quickly pulled up the expensive pair of jeans, the skinny leg ones that were over $100 and as I rode down Market Street onto Valencia Street, I stopped leaning forward and sat straight up so nobody would see. Like the way I liked it. Because I don’t ever want to be like Kim Kardashian (NSFW).

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.