Conversations With My Ass…

I have a love-hate relationship with my ass. Girls who have an ass with a mind of her own know my pain. No matter what I say or do, I can’t get the damn girl to listen to me. She grows without my permission.

There was a time my ass was very sweet. Between the ages of seventeen and twenty-six, she was a great gal. She was shaped like an upside down heart; the preference in the early eighties. I used her to my advantage bringing all the boys to the yard. Worked like a charm. She was the lucky penny I could call upon in times of need. And I was grateful. I took care of her, fed her, maintained her. She paid me back by fitting into all my jeans, looking great and perky in a bikini and never wobbling.

Now, the bitch won’t listen when I tell her to calm the fuck down and stop growing already. No permission for growth was given. In fact, frequently I inform her she is a fully grown woman and remind her to get hold of herself right this instant. She grows overnight. While I sleep. Each morning I wake to face the mirrored closet in my bathroom and say, “Girl, you did not grow again?” as I spy her poking from above a thigh. She smirks.

I know. I know, I hear it all the time. Guys like large asses. Since I’m not in the market and I have no intention of using her for any purpose other than fitting in pants I really don’t give a damn what all the guys think. J Lo? Kim Kardashian? Pfft. If those asses were attached to my backside, I’d be suicidal. Showing those things off like some prized beauty. Acting like you’re all sexy. Why doesn’t someone shake those two and say, “Girls, those are just plain old fat asses.” Nothing but an enormous badonkadonk. Displaying it at every opportunity does not make it championship caliber. Bitch please. I don’t care how many times you smack it. It’s just a fat ass.

And now mine is in a foot race with them. I can hear mine sassing theirs, taunting, promising it won’t be much longer and she will be walking the red carpet all proud, wide and beautiful. Don’t make me come after you, I scold. She laughs and grows as I nap.

She is the reason I wear dresses. I was not always a dress girl. When my ass behaved, I was prone to jeans, glorious high waisted grey flannel trousers with a thick black cinch belt, herringbone beauties with one inch cuffs and two toned mens oxfords. Yes, sir, pants were a mainstay in another fashion life. Before my ass took over. The harder it became to shove her into a pair of pants with a single digit label, the more my frustration grew. Then one day on Oprah (please, girlfriend, sell the network and come back to us) there was a woman from somewhere South talking about why the women in her country are considered so beautiful. She attributed it to wearing dresses. Whaaaa? She explained, “Dresses hide all manner of sin. You can even gain weight and in a dress you won’t notice like you would with pants.” The heavens parted and the angels sang. I had the ammunition to combat my rebellious ass. Buy dresses.

Lo and behold, as I shimmied into a nipped waist a-line just skimming the hips, I felt freedom. There was no tightness across my derriere, no bulge just above the thong line. My ass had been tricked. No longer does she rule how I look and what I wear. The bitch is caged. No longer my foe, we became friends again. As long as she provides a smooth line down the back and sides of my sheaths, we’re good. And then a few weeks ago, I noticed her. My beloved purple Tahari, nipped in waist, a little short, businessy but super cute, featured the slightest bulge on the backside. I pulled it down to smooth the errant wrinkle. Fabric settled right back in the divot this bitch was creating in the back of my dress. “It’s on girlfriend,” I yelled. She laughed, knowing I’d have to pick a different dress.

I threw the Tahari on the floor and grabbed for a royal blue Calvin, same shapely silhouette. What’s this? A little tug over the hip area. “Bitch,” I rage. She remains unfazed and is positively joyous when I have to settle for a turquoise belted number with full skirt to cover her majesty. I tell her, “You may have won this round but you will not declare victory forever.” She giggles and calls her girlfriends ‘cuz she knows I’m never gonna start running or doing some elliptical nonsense. She knows the only way she’s getting any smaller is through starvation. Again, maturity always being my first choice.

A girlfriend, who obviously is not that close says, “Its all about the wine. It’s nothing but sugar. If you want to take off the weight you must stop drinking.” Good thing I was there alone. If the YaYas had been there, they would have fallen from their chairs. A YaYa without wine is akin to a Louboutin without red soles, a Parisian without a cigarette or Jackie Kennedy using the wrong fork. I add two Splendas to my coffee, nodding in agreement even though my mind says, “This is why we only see each other a couple times a year. You’re insane.”

We’ve come to the point of standoff. We’re at twenty paces about to turn and fire. I won’t go up a size and my ass won’t stop spreading. Something’s gotta give. It better be her. If I have to tell her one more time she’s not in charge around here I might start eating healthy and exercising. I kid. I already exercise. A lot. I do the wine workout for my arms and I walk back and forth to the fridge all day long. What more does the damn bitch want from me. Yeah, Ass, I’m talking to you. What’s that? Don’t use that tone with me. Bitch still thinks she’s got it going on.