‘Dat Ass Tho…
On my gluteus maximus becoming more de minimus each day
When we watch Bob’s Burgers, my youngest has joked that he sometimes sees me as “Linda Belcher without the wine.” He’s not wrong. But what he might not know (until he reads this) is that I secretly identify more closely with her eldest daughter, Tina. More specifically, I relate to one of her character-defining traits: her obsession with butts. Stay with me.
It’s the season of the cheek here in coastal North Carolina, the dog days of summer, when an endless amount of ass is on display. Bums of all shapes, skin tones, degrees of fluffiness, and genders abound. It would take more energy for me to avert my eyes than it does to peep the hind quarters of locals and tourists alike, as they float in and out of my periphery. All this exposure has cultivated in me a warm appreciation for the extensive genetic diversity of humankind, miraculously expressed in the glorious glutes of young and old as they sashay and stride alongside me on Wrightsville Beach.
I have caught myself stifling a giggle whenever I see a woman of a certain age at the shore, a peer to be clear, bending over to adjust her chair. I always check to see if she reveals one of my favorite, iconic summer images: the presence of two thin, often shockingly light crescents of flesh, normally hidden under the soft ledge of a tanned bottom, incontrovertible evidence of where the sun doesn’t shine.
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Although I had no idea at the time, I rocked a pretty fabulous derriere in my youth. I only know this because I have art. My husband was a photographer when we first met — you can see where this is going. He was experimenting with a process called polaroid transfer at the time, and he convinced me to take some artistic nudes to help him “practice” this effect (clever, that one). Only one image survives; we keep it framed, in the loo. It’s a small picture, mottled and grainy, as if the photo was developed with watercolors on fabric. My back is to the camera, head bowed, arms hung loosely at my sides. My form is muscled and straight, dappled light creates pebbly shadows, and you can just make out the soft indents in my lower back. But ‘dat ass tho. She is heart-shaped, taught like a drum skin, smooth, unblemished. I haven’t seen her since.
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I spent many years suffering in a trance of misbelief that it was absolutely required of me to maintain my booty’s shape and texture (ha!) for the enjoyment of others, despite and against the ravages of time. As if that were my most important attribute. As if that defined me as a good person, or was the only consideration of a desirable woman. My bum has shrunk and expanded many times over the decades. It bloomed in breadth and width to support the demands of baby-making, leaving silver streaks along the edges of my upper thighs. My caboose has successfully supported me running up and down hills with friends, and biking across the countryside with my husband, our kids in tow. My heiny has expanded and deflated numerous times, from the brutality of dieting and the natural rhythms of menopausal bloat, of aging. She’s been the focus of too much attention and the victim of not enough effort as I work now to claw back some strength so that I can keep up with my active family, so I can endure and be vital for many years to come.
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Tina’s tushy fetish and mine flow from different points of view. Hers is depicted as a purely adolescent interest, innocently sensual, driven by curiosity and a yearning for connection and the adult experiences to come. But what’s up with me?
I have ultimately cultivated a different appreciation for (and definition of) a beautiful bum than I did as a young adult. I am no longer bound to a standard that reserves appreciation only for an idolized (and un-maintainable) youthful form. The limited range of acceptable ass qualities that I inherited (and nurtured far too long) leads to a prison of self-loathing, and I ain’t got time for that. I am working diligently to appreciate all of my flaws, both inside and out, learning to embrace my human condition rather than imposing yet more limits. As I extend a spirit of generosity to my tender physical parts, I have found that the entire world around me is glowing up. Everyone I encounter is suddenly radiant, everyone is stunning, everyone is divine.
These days, when I bend over at the beach, while my dimpled glutes do sag a bit, they are still perky enough that I don’t yet expose my own set of pearly white crescent moons. I know because I checked. But I really hope that someday I will. And that some kid will have a giggle when they clock me.
