#16 Democracy of the Derrière

Wherever I am, my early morning walks are usually peaceful affairs. At home, I wander or powerwalk up to the high water tank and back again. I know the five people I usually meet; I recognise their casual wear; I know their dogs’ names. None of them poses a threat to my blood pressure. It's a gentle kind of happiness I take for granted.

When I'm in Brisbane, it‘s the same. Peaceful. I take the riverwalk: a zephyr of breeze, a lone rower slicing quiet circles into the water, the occasional flash of pelican wing. It’s the kind of serenity that makes you ridiculously grateful to have knees that still work.

But last week at New Farm, I noticed what has clearly been happening for a while—the riverside path has become a parade ground for bottoms.

And not shy ones. These are bottoms with purpose. Bottoms with ambition. Bottoms doing their life’s best work before 7am. I felt as though I’d wandered into one of the Italian masters’ paintings—only upside down. Instead of Botticelli’s serene faces, round tummies and ample breasts, I was surrounded by a gallery of briskly determined bottoms—all apparently competing for Best in Show.

It wasn't the bottoms themselves so much; bottoms are ancient, harmless things.

What gets you is the engineering. The fabric science. The dedication to maximum revelation with minimum weight. The central seam of those shorts takes its mission seriously—it dives straight between the cheeks, producing two perfectly spherical Lycra melons rolling down the footpath. A fruit shop on legs. And when the sun hits just right, the whole thing shifts from activewear to anatomical illustration with a level of detail only medical students should have to endure before coffee.

And the wearers! Permanently poised—ready to spring, vault, leap, or burst into an Olympic demonstration sport called Maximum Behind. There’s such gusto to it. Such untroubled joy. They’re simply delighted to exist, and delighted to show the part of themselves doing the most work. Showing wholehearted delight in simply being out in the world, breathing river air and bottom-waggling along with purpose.

The curious thing is how completely this leisurewear has been normalised. What was once private is now public, and no one—except the occasional startled onlooker like me—seems remotely fussed. The new modesty is confidence; the new discretion is exposure. It’s almost wholesome in its breezy self-acceptance.

Before you cry prude, I know this is body positivity. In worshipping the glute, we’re embracing our real selves, celebrating every curve, and displaying our truth. It’s a self-contained ecosystem—bottoms observing bottoms, all perfectly unstartled by the view.

At least it’s a uniform: black, black, and more black. That’s a mercy—a kindness to the wider community. White Lycra at dawn would be another level of spiritual event.

I come from a generation that thought it was scandalous if a bit of bra strap showed. And yet, oddly, we also invented streaking—but those brief flashes of flesh liberation looked positively Presbyterian compared to my stroll this morning, where I witnessed more contouring than a makeup demonstration.

Still, I have to admit—there’s joy in it. The confidence, the nonchalant flourish, the shared understanding that embarrassment has stepped aside with a bow to glorious and gravity-defying bottomness. Everyone out there is just…alive. Fiercely, cheerfully, leg-swingingly alive. And honestly, isn’t that the whole point of sunrise?

So, as another pair of optimistic shorts overtakes me, it’s hard not to smile. We’ve reached a peculiar kind of freedom—one that’s democratic, dimpled, and determinedly on display.

Admirable in theory. In practice, it’s a lot of bottom before breakfast. Tell me—is this gluteal renaissance happening everywhere, or is New Farm leading the charge?

I wait your reply!