Here I am, a year old, leaning against the bath tub, butt-naked, caught for all eternity. A closer look reveals an irrefutable fact: the shape of my tush hasn’t changed much since 1958. There’s no denying that the baby SJG in this photo feels good about her dimply cheeks and plump little folds. That’s the beauty of being a baby. You’re clueless.
My butt has been an issue since the age of elevenish. I blame my mother. It's her fault. While hemming my navy blue wool skirt, she had a biblical revelation, one she just couldn’t keep to herself. “Carol!” she blurted out, “you're getting a tushy." In between tears, I said, "Are you saying I'm fat?" “No, honey. You’re not fat. You’re just…” She paused here in search of the perfect wording to deflect my panic. “… becoming a woman.” Translation: A woman with a giant ass.
Bagels smothered in butter. Chocolate donuts. Gone. Ice cream. Gone. I ate boring fruit cups. I brought soup for lunch. Even so, my butt did a number on my brain. I thought of it as separate entity in need of daily discipline. I talked to it every day while getting dressed. “What the @#$% is your problem?” “I’m not the problem, Missy, you are." So I worked hard to shrink it. I did odd exercises. I scooted down the hall on my butt, shifting my hips from side to side, waving to my brother John as I went past his door. For my efforts, I got black and blue marks. But a smaller ass? No. That didn't happen. At least it didn’t get bigger. Not until I reached young womanhood, that stage my mom briefly alluded to during the infamous “skirt incident.”
Fast forward to today, when big booty's all the rage. I have the Kardashians to thank. And J-lo and Beyonce. And Scarlett Johansson. Yes, curvy gals are taking over the universe, one cheek at a time. But until we attain world domination, and trust me, one day, we will, the best advice I can give anyone in my situation is this: Always marry a man who takes you “ass is.”
Butt Carol...
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