First off, let me just state this simple fact: I have a big butt. We pear-shaped gals have lots going on in the butt-department, and not so much in the boob-department. For me, this has long been a source of major emotional angst. I’m a white girl – white girls are not supposed to have big butts, no matter how much Sir Mix-A-Lot likes them. In my little social circles, a white girl with a big butt is, well, the butt of the jokes.
I have two choices: move to a more ethnic neighborhood, or accept that this is the shape my particular chromosomal arrangement gave me and move on emotionally. Frankly, I like my house. So, perhaps my New Year’s Resolution should be to drop 15 pounds and find a way to be happy with the way I look – including my butt.
My favorite on-line source for whatnot, Reddit.com, had this lovely little story published by National Sexuality Resource Center, “Big Booty Beauty and the New Sexual Aesthetic” which gave me hope – not so much that the world will actually ever become a better place, but that some of us will have an easier time finding our place in that world. I mean, who the heck said that the Rubens’ look was so bad anyway? (Curses upon you Twiggy!!!)
Actually, I really don’t have a problem having a big butt. Well, that isn’t true, but anyway. What I am troubled by is the unmatched-ness of my body. Like I have one of two different sets of bookends. OY. ‘Cause if I had boobs to match my butt, I would be one heck of an hour-glass, let me tell you. Or, inversely, a ruler.
Well, even this look would be acceptable if both my top and my bottom were still firm. I mean, back when I was 18, who cared if my butt was bigger than my boobs – everything was still firm and perky. Now, 22 years later, what gravity hasn’t taken a firm hold on, the genetic buzz-kill of cellulite has. And seeing headless shots of celebrities on the beach with cellulite doesn’t help. I mean, those ladies can’t use the backs of their thighs as a change purse, so I just don’t really feel their pain. Oh, Cameron Diaz has some dimpling on the back of her thigh? How sad. (Actually, she had no head in the photo, so I don’t know who the poor dearie is. I’m just throwing out names here. Mea culpa.) The beauty industry trots these little beauts out just to keep the cosmetic surgeons and psychologists busy. Frankly, I have nightmares that I have a closet-full of polyester pants to emphasize that dreaded cheesy look going on “back there”. After waking, I am usually stricken by the need to exercise and eat only sprouted wheatgrass. Luckily, the feeling usually passes as soon as I get a sniff of chocolate.
Face it, women (well, everybody really) is supposed to pack around a little junk in their trunk – in case there is a shortage of mastodons and such things. While that fear may not be quite apropos these days, it definitely plays a role in human physiology. If not, people wouldn’t crave things like chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and gravy come January, right? Instead, a good binge would be a 2 pound bag of carrots and a glass of water. I don’t know about you, but the last time I had a craving for carrots, they were artfully hidden in a cake. I’m not saying that people should throw all caution out the window and eat their fool heads off. But shouldn’t we have evolved somewhere past here?
Actually, we Americans live in a truly terrifying dualistic society. On one hand, we covet women’s bodies that are thin everywhere but the bust line. Yes, there are women who naturally look that way, but they are few and far between. So, women starve themselves and have silicone pumped in, and basically still don’t feel good about their bodies. And yet, most men could care less about a roll here or there. They may ogle the woman with the magnificent legs, tight buns and the lifted and separated boobs, but they’ll go home to their “not quite that” significant other and still be quite happy. And we women are no different. As much fun as it is to look at some good ole beef-cake, the man that loves us and takes the time to listen and love us will do just fine.
So do me a favor. Actually, two favors. First, resolve to tell women with all shapes and sizes of bootys that they are beautiful. We will all be much happier. And if you see me with a chocolate doughnut, gently remind me to put it down. You might want to run afterwards, but I’ll thank you when I can finally stop loosing change in my left thigh.