chub rub— When the skin between a fat chick’s thighs rubs together while walking, causing a mild irritation between her legs.
Used in a sentence: Yo, I thought that chicken head had some cooties but it was some mad chub rub.
—Urban Dictionary
It was a warm September evening in 2006, and I was lying in bed with my pants off and the door locked. The steam coming off my sweaty, fat body had fogged up the windows and turned my bedroom into a hotel resort sauna. Except instead of fancy wood-paneled walls covered in Asian-inspired artwork, picture, if you will, asbestos-filled walls covered in termites and Hilary Duff movie posters. Titanic was on, and it had just gotten to the scene when they have hot, intense sex in the back of a car. As Rose’s sweaty hand SLAPPED the fog-covered window my sweaty hand SLAPPED my naked thighs and covered them in rash cream.
If you are assuming my eighteen-year-old self was having a sexy night alone, you are wrong. It was the night before my first day of college, and I was medicating a serious case of chub rub I had gotten earlier that day. I had been walking through Macy’s—ok, Al’s Big and Tall—trying to find an outfit. After hours of hunting for the perfect body tent, I developed a rash. It’s something every overweight person is familiar with, and it’s one of the most annoying things that can happen during the summer. Well, that and having to keep coming up with new interesting excuses for why you don’t want to go to the beach. No shoes, no shirt, no Shane.
The fact that I was going to college was a shock to me because I had never thought about it as a kid. Every time a teacher in middle school would say, “Ok, kids, this is to prepare you for college,” I would ignore them and daydream about how I wanted to die. My ideal death was decapitation by a machete. Is that normal for a kid to think about? Probably not. But is it any more bizarre than a twelve-year-old thinking about going to college? You shouldn’t be thinking about college when you’re in sixth grade. You should be thinking about not getting the shit beat out of you by the kids who call you “walking mayonnaise.”
My parents never pressured me about school. Hell, they never even talked to me about it. I’m pretty sure it’s because they didn’t go and no one ever sold them on the benefits of an education. I remember one time when I was thirteen, I asked my mom if I should go to college, and it turned into a very confusing conversation.
ME: Mom, I was thinking about where I should go after high school.
MOM: Are you trying to tell me you want to move out?
ME: No, I—
MOM: ’Cause I need you here! If you’re not here, then who am I gonna have date night with? And who’s gonna eat the rest of the Hamburger Helper when I make it?? It makes SIX servings, Shane! And there’s only ONE of me!
I’m sure from reading my first book you already know how unhealthily close my mom and I were, so I’m just going to keep moving. Near the end of high school I decided to apply to college because all of my friends were doing it. I wasn’t too passionate about the idea, but I figured I would give it a shot. I picked a school close to my house because I knew I couldn’t afford to move away, and let’s be honest, the Hamburger Helper wasn’t gonna eat itself. I was told by a guidance counselor that I should apply to more than one school, but my mom could only afford to help me apply to one, so we put all our eggs in that basket. As I was about to click send on my online application my mom kneeled down next to my computer desk and grabbed my hand to pray.
MOM: God, please have Shane be accepted into this college and let him succeed and follow all of his dreams.
ME: Amen.
MOM: Also, let me find a man. Preferably one who’s not an alcoholic or a chain-smoker. And let him just pop into my life. Maybe a pizza man? Or a bag checker? I would even settle for a war veteran with PTSD who thought I was trying to kill him.
ME: Amen.
After a few weeks of waiting I finally got a letter in the mail from the college, and I ran into my apartment so I could open it with my mom. We were both shaking, and before I even finished reading the first sentence we started ugly crying. HARD.
ME: Dear Shane, we are pleased to inform you—
MOM: AHHHHH! THANK YOU, JESUS!
Our cries were so ugly you would have thought we were two cripples who’d just had an Extreme Home Makeover.
A few months later I had a talk with my guidance counselor about what classes I was going to take my first year of college. That’s when I found out I had to take three years of general education before I could apply for the film department, and there was still a chance after that that I wouldn’t get in. And if that happened the whole three years would have been for nothing. I didn’t have a plan B. Being a director was all I ever wanted. I had a gut feeling that college wasn’t for me, but I decided to put those thoughts on the back burner and focus on the fact that I got into college in the first place.
A year later I was in my room, covered in rash cream, watching Jack and Rose make love while I thought about my first day of school. I was pretty terrified because I had no idea what to expect. The only things I knew about it were what I had learned from movies. I knew that I was gonna gain “the freshman fifteen,” which to me was nothing. Fifteen pounds? I could gain that on a Friday night at the Souplantation if I played my cards right. The next thing I knew was that someone was definitely going to try to sell me drugs. Although I’d been told I had the face of a forty-five-year-old policewoman, so most kids thought I was a narc. The last thing I knew was that there was going to be a lot of walking because the campus was so large and spread out. That’s what I was most nervous about. I got a rash walking around a department store; how would I survive a college campus?
Instead of freaking out, I decided to focus on what I was excited about . . . which was nothing, so I went to bed and covered my rash in an adult diaper.
The next morning I woke up with a smile on my face, mainly because I’d had a dream about being decapitated by a machete. As I drove into the college parking lot, I looked at the other cars and they were just as shitty as mine. I felt like maybe I would fit in just fine. I got out of my beat-up ride and looked at the campus map to see where I was going first. I put my finger on the parking lot and then dragged it all the way to the orientation office. I started doing the math in my head, and the mathematical conclusion I came to was . . . DAMN, THAT SHIT’S FAR. I took a deep breath and began my journey.
As I walked through campus I took in all the sights around me. I saw hot guys making out with hot girls. I saw ugly guys making out with ugly girls. I even saw an ugly guy making out with a semi-decent girl. There was hope for me! Sure, she had a back brace and what appeared to be face ringworm, but she had a pretty decent body. I took a little break on a bench after walking for what felt like hours and looked down at the map. I was only halfway there! I felt like I was walking around Disneyland, but it was more expensive and the only ride was a roller coaster of emotions you get when you find out the suicide rate! My chub rub had started to flare back up, and it wasn’t helping that I was wearing jeans. I should have known not to wear denim, but I was so concerned about looking cool that I ignored my instincts.
I’ve had a long history with denim and chub rub. It all started when I was ten years old. My mom was dating a guy who was always trying to impress us. I remember one time when we were all together for a day out he pulled his car over to an ATM, hopped out, and said, “I love spending money!” In my opinion, he was a keeper. I have no idea how great his relationship was with my mom, but this motherfucker had a heavy-ass wallet and I wanted to help him go bankrupt. One day when we were all eating at a restaurant he looked over at me and asked a question I’ll never forget.
MONEY GUY: Hey, Shane, tell me something crazy you want to do today?
ME: Steal you away from my mom and have you buy me an island.
Obviously I didn’t actually say that out loud, but I definitely thought it. Can you imagine me having my own island? Shirts would be mandatory, and the volcanos would be filled with cheese dip.
ME: Um . . . ride a roller coaster?
MONEY GUY: Let’s do it!
He drove us down to Knott’s Berry Farm and we embarked on a day filled with roller coasters and no lines. He bought us the front-of-the-line VIP passes because he REALLY wanted to fuck my mom. And I wanted him to. I could only imagine what kind of amazing things he’d buy me if he was tapping that. We decided to go on a water ride, and that’s when the day took a turn for the worst. I was wearing my jeans and I had a little chub rub already, but the second my jeans got wet all hell broke loose. Wet denim makes a rash ten times worse. I’m sure there’s been some scientific study about it. Most likely funded by the Khaki Committee. I don’t care how fat I get, I’m not wearing khakis. That’s the epitome of giving up on life.
As we left the water ride and headed over to get funnel cakes I couldn’t hold my pain back any longer. My thighs were burning so badly I broke down and started crying. I fell to the floor with tears streaming down my face and started grabbing at my rash-covered legs.
MOM: Shane, what’s wrong?
MONEY GUY: Is it something I said? Was it the comment about you kind of looking like a cartoon bear at certain angles?
ME: What?
MOM: I don’t think he heard that.
ME: No, it’s . . . it’s . . .
MOM: Honey, tell us.
As I pointed down to my legs my mom knew exactly what it was and she knew how embarrassed I was by it. What kid wants his future sugar daddy to know that his fat legs had rubbed together so hard they literally started a flesh fire?
MOM: I think we should go home now. It’s been a long day.
MONEY GUY: But . . . I wanna spend more money.
As much as I wanted to drain his bank account and make him buy me a pony, I was in too much pain to have any more fun. My mom took me home and helped me put on my rash cream. And I’ll never forget her advice that night as her hands were lathering up my inner thighs.
MOM: No jeans when it’s hot out.
Now, as I sat on the college bench feeling the familiar burn between my legs, I knew I should have listened to her advice. I was starting to feel defeated. It was only the first day and I was already in pain from walking around campus. I started having doubts about going to college. I could barely afford the application fee; how was I going to afford everything else that came along with it? Especially since I could tell I was going to need A LOT more chub rub cream than usual.
Just as I began to spiral down a dark hole of self-pity, a security guard walked up to me and struck up a conversation. He was around fifty years old and looked like this was definitely his second job, his other job being a rapist.
SECURITY GUARD: Hey. I haven’t seen you around here before. This your first day?
ME: Ya. I’m a freshman.
SECURITY GUARD: Freshman?! I thought you were a security guard!
Told you. Narc.
ME: Ya, I get that a lot. Especially at malls. It’s one of the reasons I’m too scared to ride a Segway. I don’t want to constantly be stopped and asked where the bathroom is.
SECURITY GUARD: Ya, security is hard. What you studying?
ME: Film. Well, not yet but hopefully soon. I have to take general education first.
SECURITY GUARD: Cool. You gonna make really sad movies?
ME: No, why?
SECURITY GUARD: Just figured.
ME: Ok . . . Well, I’m gonna go to class now.
SECURITY GUARD: Let me walk you!
ME: Oh, I’m ok.
SECURITY GUARD: It’s more for your safety. You’re just asking for an ass whooping wearing that shirt.
Did I mention I was wearing a shirt that said “SLICE to meet ya!” with a smiling cartoon piece of pizza on it? I wish I could kick my own ass. As we walked toward my class the chub rub started to get worse. I could literally feel pieces of my skin falling off. It was like two sticks rubbing together starting a campfire, and my “s’more” was starting to smell like fish.
ME: Is there a bathroom around here?
He looked at me for a moment, confused.
ME: Men’s.
Confusion over.
SECURITY GUARD: Oh ya! Right over here.
I walked into the bathroom and checked under every stall to make sure I was alone. All clear. I turned on the faucet and started to unbutton my pants. The rash had gotten so bad it felt like steam was coming from my jeans when I lowered them down. My thighs looked like they had a third-degree burn! For some reason I thought covering them in cold water would make them feel better, but I should have learned from my ten-year-old mistake: WATER AND DENIM MAKE IT WORSE.
As I washed my rash with the cool water I felt a little relief, which was instantly ruined once I pulled my pants back up. It felt like I had just put on a pair of pants made out of knives and grandpa face. You know, that thick rough grandpa skin that you feel when he gives you a drunken kiss on Christmas? No? Just me? Anyways. I walked out of the bathroom clutching my thighs like I had just been kicked in the nuts.
SECURITY GUARD: Did someone beat you up in there? Maybe turn that shirt inside out? I can’t be with you 24/7.
ME: No. I’m having kind of a personal problem. Do you happen to know if there’s a pharmacy on campus?
SECURITY GUARD: Of course, man. That’s where they got a bowl of free condoms! Which really comes in handy when you’re surrounded by this many fine-ass women.
ME: Aren’t you fifty?
SECURITY GUARD: You’re as young as you feel!
ME: I don’t think that applies in this situation.
I walked into the pharmacy and searched everywhere for rash cream, but I couldn’t find it. I was desperate, so I went up to the girl at the register to ask.
ME: Hi, I need rash cream.
GIRL: This is college; you’re gonna have to be more specific.
ME: I’m not sure what the medical term is.
GIRL: There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ve heard it all.
ME: Chub Rub.
GIRL: Eww, what the fuck?
I’m pretty sure she thought I had some kind of STD only transmitted by fat people. Great.
GIRL: Follow me back to see the nurse.
I was so glad to know college was filled with so many open-minded, nonjudgmental people. What a nice change from high school. As we walked into the nurse’s office I was instantly relieved by her warm, welcoming smile. She was like a school nurse out of a movie. She had suckers on her desk in case anyone got nervous as well as different-colored bandages to make wounds more fun.
NURSE: How can I help you?
ME: I’m having a situation and I need some rash cream.
NURSE: Is it an allergic reaction?
ME: No . . . it’s more of a wearing-jeans-and-having-fat-legs reaction.
In that moment I could tell she understood me. She wasn’t a thin woman herself, and she definitely wasn’t wearing jeans.
NURSE: Gotcha. I’ve got just the stuff.
She reached into her medicine cabinet and grabbed a bottle of ointment that had clearly been used, most likely on her.
NURSE: This should do the trick.
NURSE: So, how’s your first day going?
I hesitated. It wasn’t going well. I hadn’t even made it to my first class and I was already in the nurse’s office for a crotch burn.
ME: Not great.
NURSE: You wanna talk about it?
ME: I just . . . I don’t know if college is my thing.
NURSE: What makes you say that?
ME: Well, first of all, the campus is huge. And I know this sounds crazy and incredibly lazy, but I’m not sure I can survive walking this much every day. I might actually die.
She laughed. I didn’t. That much walking would have actually killed me. And “walking to death” wasn’t even on my top-ten list of ways to die.
NURSE: What else is bothering you?
ME: It’s just . . . I don’t know if college was a good idea. I only applied because nobody in my family ever had. I wanted to prove to myself that I could get in. And now that I’m here, I’m not feeling good about it.
NURSE: What are you majoring in?
ME: That’s the thing. I want to major in film, but it’s going to take three years of general education before I can even apply for that.
NURSE: Oh, so you want to be a director?
ME: More than anything.
NURSE: Well, I’m sure you know how hard it is to get into that business.
ME: Ya, trust me. I know it’s a long shot, but it’s all I ever wanted.
ME: Never. The day I think of a plan B is the day I’ve given up. Well, that and the day I start wearing khakis.
She laughed and sat down next to me.
NURSE: I want to tell you something. Not as a nurse, but as a friend.
ME: Ok.
NURSE: If you really want to be a director, you’re not going to learn about it in a classroom.
ME: What do you mean?
NURSE: You have to experience it. Get on a movie set and learn how everything works in the real world.
ME: Wait . . . Are you telling me to drop out?
NURSE: I’m telling you to go with your gut. And if your gut is telling you to make movies, then that’s what you have to go do. Not sit behind a desk for three years hoping that maybe you will be accepted into the film program.
I thought about what she was saying, and it really hit home. I didn’t want to be in college. I was so proud that I had been accepted, but the idea of being trapped in a classroom terrified me.
ME: You give a lot of people this speech?
NURSE: If I did, I would have been fired a long time ago.
ME: Thanks.
NURSE: Don’t mention it. Lollipop?
ME: Ya, fuck it. Why not?
She smiled and handed me a lollipop. I popped it in my mouth, took the bottle of cooling cream, and walked out the door. On the way back to my car, I called my mom to tell her about my decision. I was scared she would be disappointed in me and feel like she failed as a parent, but instead her reaction was exactly what I needed.
ME: Mom, I’m dropping out. I want to get a job and support myself while I make short films and learn filmmaking on my own.
I heard ugly crying on the other end. But they weren’t sad tears; they were happy ones.
MOM: I’m so proud of you, Shane.
ME: Really?
MOM: I was praying about it because I knew your heart wasn’t in this. You don’t need college to tell you you’re a director. You’ve been one since the day you held up a camera for the first time when you were ten years old.
ME: Thanks, Mom.
MOM: One day you’re gonna make a movie like Titanic and inspire a kid to be a director just like you.
That night I went home and lay on my bed with my pants off and turned on the second half of Titanic while I covered my thighs in rash cream. As I watched the ship crash into the iceberg I knew that I had made the right decision. My goal wasn’t to have a college degree or for a professor to tell me I had talent. It was for an audience to see my stuff and connect with it. I knew that if I just started working hard, I would get there, and I would learn along the way.
From that day forward I started posting monthly videos on YouTube and learned everything I could have ever hoped to learn in college. I learned how to edit, produce, and write scripts, act, and even build an audience.
I’ll always be grateful for chub rub. It caused me pain and embarrassment, but it truly changed my life and forced to me to take a huge risk. And without it, I wouldn’t be here today.
Now this isn’t meant to make anyone feel like college is a waste of time, because for so many people it’s not. But don’t go because you feel like you have to. If your heart isn’t in it, then why spend four years of your life stuck somewhere you don’t want to be? If you’re passionate about something, give it your all, and you will find happiness. Whatever you do, just remember not to wear jeans if it’s hot out. And wear anything but khakis. That’s giving up before you even get started.