An old roommate recently posted a status update on Facebook. For those who aren’t part of the glorious timesuck that is FB, status updates are where you tell your friends how or what you’re doing. You complete the sentence Stephanie is [ ] or in this case Gina is [ ], thus opening the window into your state of mind just a crack.
Well, yesterday, Gina’s update was “Gina is [wondering where her butt went.]”
It made me smile because even without having seen her recently I think I know what happened: Gina is likely experiencing that bizarre redistribution of body mass that often occurs after childbirth or as a matter of course as you get older. Her butt, presumably once distinct from her legs and perhaps high and rounded (I actually don’t remember the specifics of her butt), has flattened out. If her waist has thickened (as I’m sure it has, since she, like I, has young twins) then that whole waist/hip/flank/butt corridor is a bit squarer, and less hourglassy than it was pre-kiddies. [Update: Gina has since confirmed that this is precisely what happenend.]
I am experiencing just that phenomenon. Baby weight is at least theoretically possible to lose. Formerly-Had-a-Butt Syndrome is exponentially harder, if not impossible to correct. There are some body parts that aren’t where they used to be (many breasts, for instance, have moved south over the years,) but you can still locate them should you have the need. When you lose your ass, by contrast, you may as well hold a funeral for it because it’s not coming back.
You know how when a loved one dies, it’s comforting to think of him or her in a better place, such as heaven if you’re religious or a chocolate factory or Woodbury Commons, if you’re me? I’ve decided to think about my butt as having gone on to a better place, a place where a butt can be truly happy, or at least contented. My butt is probably somewhere delightful with my other beloved body parts that have decided to secede from the rest of my body.
I like to think my butt is someplace soft and padded, where all pants contain at least 4 percent Spandex and no perverted old men grope you on the subway. There are no squats or leg-lifts to torture you, and cellulite is considered a mark of true beauty (the more cottage cheesy dimples, the better!) Perhaps my butt is with Gina’s, sipping umbrella drinks and enjoying a well-deserved retirement after 40-plus years of being sat on, eyed judgmentally in 3-way mirrors, being made to follow subserviently behind me like Japanese women walked behind their husbands until relatively recently.
No, my butt is in a better place, and I hope yours is, too.