I once made the mistake of thinking I was cool. Despite lacking the traditional cool guy qualities of having a sweet haircut, wearing a leather jacket, or knowing how to seductively lean against a wall, I believed that my street cred resume warranted a promotion into the chilly, rarefied air of hipness. My days were spent doing stereotypical Southern Californian things: surfing, lounging on the beach, drinking into the wee hours of the morning, and excessively brunching. It was a poorly directed crossover episode of Sex and the City and Baywatch. With enough squinting and the right Instagram filter, you too might have confused me for a well-liked member of society.
At the age of 25, I believed I reached the summit of Mount Cool. I had gathered some real-world experience and began dabbling in adulthood, but still maintained large portions of my reckless youth that were equal parts fun and self-destructive. For example, I understood the concept of a 401k, but also realized eggs benedicts and bottomless mimosas don’t pay for themselves. Future me is not covered in champagne and hollandaise sauce, making him easy to forget. I thought I had it all figured out: just keep doing this exact routine for the rest of your life, and everything will turn out okay. Nothing could stop my penchant for overindulgence.
This was a deviation from the mean, however; a blip on the radar for my traditionally clumsy life. The karmic universe has a way of bringing things back to equilibrium. While I was busy living a lie, assuming I was next in line to ascend to the throne of Fresh Prince of Southern California, the universe was toiling away at a sinister scheme to unhinge myself from the cool moniker. It was only a matter of time before my catastrophic assumptions caught up to me.
I decided to share my newfound assumed awesomeness with the world. That summer, instead of walking to the beach (pretty cool), I aspired to ride my skateboard there as much as possible (EXTREME MOUNTAIN DEW COMMERCIAL COOL). Was this a quicker mode of transportation? Yes. Was I seeking to shove my SoCal stereotype down your throat? Also yes.
On warm days, I tucked my surfboard under my arm and skated to the beach, thus completing my transformation into a PacSun ad. If you caught a glimpse of me en route, you would surely stop and say to no one in particular, “That man has as many boards as he does arms! Surely, he is ready to take on whatever Southern California extreme sports challenge comes his way!”. You may also have had the sudden urge to purchase two Hurley t-shirts for only $25.
Humidity is a rarity in San Diego. All amateur meteorologists like to tell you the Southwest “is a dry heat.” And they are right! But they forget to mention that dry heat still leads to being drenched in sweat. Heat is still heat and the air conditioning business out here is thriving. The scarcity makes days that you step outside and breath in thick, moist air feel novel. It is a treat to be encumbered by both the sun’s raging inferno and nature’s failed attempt at making a rain cloud.
Those occasional sticky days make me want to wear as few articles of clothing as possible. On one humid day in August, I mounted my wheeled steed and set forth towards the beach with only board shorts covering my person. I wanted to surf not because the waves were good (it was a day where a 2-foot mushburger would look tantalizing), but because I was seeking relief from the heat.
Feeling refreshed after a morning of surfing something that resembled waves, I began the journey back to my apartment. I cruised along the boardwalk, surfboard snug under my arm, breeze in my hair. Quite a few people were roaming about in the late morning sun. Ladies would smile at me, probably wondering what my relationship status was. The Gentlemen I whizzed by were surely jealous of my pure, uncut awesomeness. I was feeling as good as one can inside their own fantasy world.
I zipped by a pair of older ladies walking together, pumping a couple times for extra speed. Right after I passed them, I overheard one say to the other, “That’s DISGUSTING.”
While I had not yet showered that morning, I was just frolicking in the ocean. That almost counts as a shower. At best, I smelled like salt water. At worst, maybe I was a little sweaty. Neither was anywhere in the disgusting realm. It’s not like I was riding home with a rotting kelp bed in my hair. Maybe she was jealous that her day was not as sweet as my board to board action sports filled one. Or maybe a seagull had just shit on her. Either way, I proceeded confident it was not me who was at fault for the outburst.
As I weaved through more groups of people, each started laughing as I went by. Sometimes, their laughter was coupled with a “Oh My God, LOOK AT THAT!” I started to get concerned. Was I trying too hard to be cool (I was) and everyone was just now noticing? Were board sports now only for the social inept? Did I look ridiculous in my favorite pair of board shorts? Feeling like the eyes of everyone on the boardwalk were focused on me, a small panic attack ensued. I skated as fast as possible towards my apartment, hoping to avoid the giant Acme anvil of anxiety that hovered over my potentially Wylie E. Coyote looking head.
I scampered into my apartment, checking over my shoulder to make sure no one had followed me to make further jokes at my expense. Analyzing my belongings produced nothing problematic. My skateboard sat there, looking very much like a skateboard. I did buy it on sale from a Swell catalog while I was in college. Perhaps the locals noticed and thought that made me a kook.
My surfboard leaned against the wall; white, ding free, and with the fins pointing in the right direction. Surely, it was not the culprit.
I moved on to my body, staring at myself in the mirror to scan for any abnormalities. There was no second head, weird growths, or alien children ready to hatch from my chest. Aside from an odd birthmark on my ribs that looks like a third nipple (true story!), I passed my own physical examination. My nose was large, but that’s always been an issue. And besides, people laughed at me as I passed them, so it was impossible for them to see my giant, aerodynamically efficient snout.
Not wanting to rule out that a colony of insects had taken up residence on my back, I flipped around and craned my neck to get a glimpse of my bootylicious side. And there I saw what everyone had been laughing at: a seam that held the two legs of my board shorts together had ripped right down the middle – from my waist to my crotch. I have seen small to medium sized holes appear in clothing before, even in the crotch area, but never have I witnessed a seam in such a traumatic state. It looked like Michael Myers tried to stab my butt and came up just short.
The crack of my ass lined up perfectly with my now breezy backside window. Whether it was pushing and leaning forward on my board or the way the wind was blowing that day, I knew my shorts must have stretched in either direction, revealing a good deal more than just the crack. I had just shown the city of San Diego my bare ass. Even worse: It was deemed disgusting.
Parents must have covered little Johnny and Suzie’s eyes as I rode past, treating my derriere as they would a sex scene in an R-rated movie. They were too young to see something that hairy and naked. I am surprised no one screamed “Won’t somebody PLEASE think of the children?!” as the sight of the nude male booty was singed deep inside their retinas.
Oh God….does that make me a sex offender? Impossible. I did not dress for this kind of attention, nor was I skateboarding like I wanted it. They did not need to look at me. I demand to speak to a lawyer! Preferably someone determined to get DISGUSTING ASS vs. CITY OF SAN DIEGO thrown out of court.
A LAWYER TYPE: “Your honor, while this man possesses an ass – and quite an ass, if I may express my own opinion to the court – he was not knowingly displaying his bare bottom for all to see. This man was a victim of circumstance. If the ass fits, you must acquit! With that, I would like to call my first witness, Professional Posterior Analyst, Sir Mix-a-Lot, to the stand.”
My shorts were not of the modern stretchy variety. Wet and clinging to my body, the friction and lack of flexibility must have combined to rip the seam. I could have potentially avoided this by wearing something underneath, perhaps allowing fabric to slide across fabric with less resistance. But that’s not much fun. Wearing a wetsuit in the ocean is great, and very much necessary for warmth, but shedding it feels like when you have sex sans condom. It’s freeing and feels more natural, but can result in the unexpected.
Any ounce of cool I once had was eviscerated. No longer was I a person with great coolness potential doing envious activities, I was the guy that tried and failed to be cool, ripping his clothing and thoroughly embarrassing himself in front of an entire city. Your reputation cannot recover from that. I am no longer a man. I am only an ass.
With my cool points dipping into disastrous amounts of negative, I came to the conclusion that it was now too risky to use a skateboard as my main mode of transportation. It could also have been much, much worse. What if I fell and scraped my ass? Or worse, tore myself a new asshole? What if I had a lapse in balance and crashed into someone, breaking both my limbs and theirs? Sure, I was hurt from my quick descent down the social ladder, but the only person I had hurt was myself. Now, I was *GASP* worried about others. These were all difficult new thoughts to process for a young twenty something accustomed to throwing his body into a variety of potentially dangerous scenarios, confident he would emerge unscathed. If this was Super Mario Brothers, I was warped directly from World 1-1 with multiple lives to World 8-4 with only one. Everything everywhere was now a threat. I had to save myself from future pain and awkwardness.
Much like Saves the Day, I was through being cool. I flew too close to the sun and felt one step away from a potential catastrophic mistake. It made me realize who I was: a rather clumsy child in a grown up’s body. Don’t get me wrong: there is very much still room in grown up life for having fun, but I did not need to be the human embodiment of Poochie. I needed to be more cognizant of the embarrassing and potentially tragic things lurking outside the front door. Besides, the word was now out: I am disgusting. And as an adult, you have to learn to protect your own ass.