Let me begin by admitting that I'd never be associated with the term "fashion-savvy" unless it was used in a sentence like, "Judith's not particularly fashion-savvy, poor thing." I don't own anything that appears in Vogue, and younger members of my family tease me for wearing stockings with my summer skirts. Actually, they tease me because I still use the word "stockings." I tell you these things as a preface of sorts so that you know that the most recent faux pas imbedded under my skin has nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with manners.

My new least-favorite thing is the low-riding jean. You know - those "sexy" denims that rise just an inch or so above their wearer's pubic bone. On a recent shopping trip, I was overcome by the number of young women sporting what my niece calls "butt cleavage," an unfortunate side affect of the low-hanging jean. A pretty blonde bending over to pick up a napkin shot me an eye-full of hers, but the remainder of the many cleavage-showers remained sedentary on food court stools. It took every bit of my self-control to avoid stuffing my spare handkerchiefs in each of their tiny versions of the San Andreas fault.

I did not enjoy having my view assaulted by a sea of multi-colored behinds, but if I've learned anything from writing this column, it's that people think I'm overly critical. So, I took my readers' advice and looked the other way. I ate my corndog in a dark corner and minded my own business - until I decided to work off my fried lunch by taking the stairs.

Climbing to the second floor of the mall, I came literally face to face with my most recent antagonist. One stair ahead of me was the most obnoxious example of butt cleavage I'd ever seen. With each rise of its owner's foot, it smiled at me with defiance. "Here I am," it mocked, "I disgust you, but you can't look away." It was right - my gaze was fixed and I was trapped. Look away and risk plummeting down a flight of stairs. Look forward and forever be able to identify this girl by her rear-end alone. Thoughts of police-mandated butt-lineups ran through my head. "Ms. Primrose, please identify the butt you claim visually assaulted you," the cop would say. "Number four, officer. I'll never forget that tush. See - there's a little mole above the right cheek."

It's disturbing enough that these girls don't mind displaying their bums to anyone that cares to look, but it's worse than that. Most of the cracks I saw seemed to be intentionally decorated. Some had sparkling rhinestone beads floating an inch or so above the crevice that were attached to strings pretending to be undergarments. One had a little purple butterfly partially imbedded in it; poor insect never had a chance.

I know that I'm behind in the times, but when did it become fashionable to flash what plumbers for decades have been trying to keep hidden? Why doesn't someone, anyone, tell these young girls that they look more trashy than flashy? Why don't parents insist that their daughters keep their rears under wraps?

My solution is simple. I've decided that if you can't beat them, then join them. I've purchased my own pair of low-slung jeans, and I can't wait to wear them out. Every time some sweet young thing sees more than they'd like of this granny's private places, maybe they'll think twice about showing me theirs.