Assets

In the spirit of taking good advice and, in that vein, trying to focus on the positive, I have a post that is not "oh woe is me" for a change.

Since I turned thirty, about 7 months ago now, I have not notice a lot of physical changes. It is not as though I woke up in this new decade and found my physical landscape had totally gone to hell. Just as when I woke up on the day I turned twenty one, I did not feel that the mantle of adulthood was firmly affixed to my breast. All of that being said, in the intervening seven months since the "thirty" milestone, I have noticed a few differences. There have been the sudden uninvited appearance of gray hairs (which even regular six week highlight appointments cannot wholly stay in front of). Likewise, I have seen the beginning of the dreaded phenomena that is cellulite popping up in various "problem" areas -- a cruel genetic disposition I was not aware of. But lastly, and most significantly, I have become aware that, unlike prior years, regardless of how rigorous my workout regimen, my posterior -- the proverbial boo-tay -- does not change in size. Or as my sister rather inelegantly noted recently to a cab driver of ours, "She has a *big* ass. Like J.Lo/Beyonce big! But it's only because her waist is so small. Really." In a former life I would have taken such offense I would not have spoken to her for a week, and I would have stopped eating for two. But today, being older and wiser, I knew it was true.

My bottom, such that it is (along with my thighs) has been the bane of my existence for the better part of half my life. It is what I was always running miles and miles and miles to get away from. I wanted it to shrink. To retreat. To give up its relentless pursuit. Always there, in my rear view mirror, right behind me. On a select few occasions over the years, I succeeded. But only when consuming 600 calories a day and running 6 miles as well. Need I mention that while my ass my was small, my head looked like a lollipop, and I was, well, nothing short of insufferable, because, frankly, I was damn hungry.

So today, I am still pretty fanatic about my workouts. I am less disciplined in my eating -- partly by design, as I am working with a nutritionist to regulate my eating patterns (though she, and I, frown on my York Peppermint Patty and Starbuck's pastries habits) -- but overall, I eat in a healthier manner than the average bear. Maybe not the average sorority girl, but better than a super-majority of the populations. And in the end, there it is -- the end. My end. The rear end. Following on as always.

The only way to describe it is as my sister did, in the the pop culture vernacular: It is J. Lo, Beyonce, and Kim Kardashian all rolled into one. It is most like these pop culture exemplars because I have a smaller frame on top (though unlike Kardashian, and perhaps Beyonce, I am not all that well endowed).

I am not going to lie. It does -- as it always has (and probably, to some degree, always will) -- vex me. I wish for it to disappear, to make itself less apparent, to take on the cloaking qualities of Wonder Woman's plane. But of course, it does not (though I am not fully convinced that it cannot) take on the aforementioned qualities. It is nothing if not persistent (and more than a little recalcitrant). Behind me, full and round and buxom (if such an adjective can be attributed to the derriere) it remains. I should appreciate it, for in this life, it is rare, beyond the exceptional friends and the ocassional family member, to find someone or something that always stands behind you.

My bottom -- such that it is -- is a key, I think. If I can truly accept it, it would be a gateway to accepting all of my other endemic flaws. Er, quirks. It, too, useful as a gating item. "Sir, do you mind girls who went to Harvard? Who have graduate degrees? Who are well-beyond self supporting? And who have ample bottoms?" I think it really could be a victory-squared (win-win-win) situation.

So we shall see what comes of this rocky relationship between me and my bottom, but, I am happy to report, I am willing, for the first time, well, ever, to sit down (on it) to have talks (with it). Wow, that seems like it will be a bit awkward, doesn't it? Well, let's put it this way -- accommodations for talks will be intimate and the parties will therefore be highly incentivized to come to agreement.