I have a flat ass. Hold your applause. After years of wrestling with my derrière deficit, I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that my butt looks like a wooden cutting board with half of a smashed roasted sweet potato resting on it. Trust me, my lower half is nothing to write home about. It’s lackluster and utterly forgettable; it’s the Are You There, Chelsea? of asses. Seriously, Princess Leia has bigger buns on her head than I do on my entire body. It’s not fair.
Sometimes I wish I could just take my tush off and leave it at home, but I can’t. It’s my permanent plus one on the guest list of life. It’s always around, trailing my every move even though it adds nothing to the party. My butt is basically Turtle from Entourage.
In my defense, my badonk never had a chance. I come from a long line of 2-dimensional tushes. My great-grandparents arrived in America with nothing but thick Russian accents and skimpy backsides. Then, by some miracle, they all coupled up with similarly flat-assed people. And, then their children hooked up with flat-asses. What are the odds of such a thing? My family is blessed with several appealing traits–curly brown hair, long legs, the ability to eat pizza before it’s properly cooled down–but filling out a pair of curvy jeans from Old Navy is not one of them, unfortunately.
My two sisters and I look at our parents’ flat behinds and exchange resigned looks. We never had any hope at winning the tush lotto; our parents’ asses are flatter then a flap of cardboard trying to hide under a blanket. What hope did we have? We’ve bonded over it. We’re in our own society of flat tushes. Instead of having a secret handshake, we just talk about how we can’t wear capri pants in public. (Capri pants leave our asses looking flatter than a Flat Stanley convention.)
Sure, I’ve tried lunges and squats but it didn’t really do anything. I’m never going to have a perfect behind. I used to hate looking at it because it sorta looks like Ron Swanson’s face when he’s angry. If my butt were a Disney character, it’d be Eyore for sure. He’s the saddest ass of all time! It’s fitting on many levels.
I’ve had low bun-related self-esteem for years and now that I think about it, Sir Mix-a-Lot shoulders most of the blame. His song ‘Baby Got Back’ came out when I was in 9th grade. It was an instant hit. He made big butts cool. The video featured lots of silver spandex and innuendo, which naturally intrigued me. Big butts were having their moment in the spotlight. Good for them! I was initially on-board with the message.
But one part in the song stuck in my craw. It was when he rapped, “I’m tired of magazines/ saying flat butts are the thing.” HOLD THE PHONE. Which magazines is he talking about? Is there a Flat Tush Quarterly or a Flabby Behind Aficionado and no one told me? My butt was “the thing”? When? Where? Who? How? Give me more details, Mr. Mix-a-lot! In 9th grade, I subscribed to Sassy, Spin and Rolling Stone. None of these magazines praised flat butts. Believe me, I would’ve known. Are you telling me, Sir Mix-a-Lot, that my butt was in? It’s past tense now? What happened? Did I miss my day in the flat butt sun? I was confused, saddened and upset because according to Sir Mix-a-Lot’s song, my butt was OUT. It was yesterday’s news. Over. Done. Kaput. My butt was a cassette tape living in a Compact Disc world. My backside was outdated before I’d even went out on my first date.
What the hell was I supposed to do with this information? I had just became a freshman in high school. I had to figure out where my new locker was, who I wanted to sit with in the cafeteria and if I wanted to play clarinet in the pep band or not. Now he heaps this rear end bomb on me? It was too much! That’s great that he’s empowering women across the land with his ode to big booties, but did he have to take a swipe at flat butts in the process? What gives, Sir Mix-a-Lot? Leave my tiny flat ass alone!
The next blow to my butt’s self esteem was Jennifer Lopez’s entire existence. All anyone talked about was her butt. America was fixated on it. There’s even a close-up on her ass during her video for ‘If You Had My Love’ that shook me to my core.
“So that’s what all the fuss is about,” I thought. Her rear looked tan, firm and juicy. None of these words have ever been used to describe my butt. I couldn’t even write that sentence with a straight face. Yeah, my butt is the exact opposite of Jennifer Lopez’s butt. Mine’s the Danny DeVito to her Arnold Schwarzenegger; a shriveled, pale, lesser counterpart to hers.
When Kim Kardashian came on the scene a few years later, it was the second coming of the Ass Age. Ass this, ass that. Ass implants. Ass padded underwear. I was awash in asses. Even though I couldn’t see mine without the aid of several mirrors in a Macy’s dressing room, I was aware that I was lacking some serious loinage. It was almost too much to take. A guy I was seeing once told me that I had “the best ass in Philly” and I didn’t talk to him for 30 minutes. It wasn’t because it was offended; it was because I thought he was making fun of me.
“I have a crummy ass. There’s no need to point it out,” I hissed.
“Dude, calm down. I seriously think you have a great butt. Here, I bought you a beer. Let’s just enjoy the rest of our date.” This was a real conversation we had! It’s like the worst after-school special on the planet. Plus, I realized that I sounded like a crazy person. I had to let my butt baggage go.
Seriously, screw butts. I’m sick about caring about mine. I’m derriered out! I’ve finally accepted it. This is my butt, world. Sure, it looks like an undercooked pancake scraped off a griddle, but I don’t care. Maybe flat butts are poised for a comeback! Maybe my butt is gonna be like grunge; attractive to a generation who never lived through it the first time it came around. Maybe my ass will be both retro and modern, like Lenny Kravitz. Hey, a girl can dream.
I say we’re due for a new anthem about how all butts are cool in their own way. Dimpled or taut, flabby or inflated, all asses should be given a pat on the back just for existing. You know what? I’m gonna blow a kiss to mine next time I find myself in a Macy’s dressing room. It deserves it.
Image via If It’s Hip, It’s Here