Perhaps you think I am going to launch into a sardonic skewering of pressing social issues, a more modern and caustic version of the original “my foot.” For example:

“Cher isn’t 95% made-in-Taiwan, MY ASS!”

or

“Michael Jackson’s relationship with his chimp is purely platonic, MY ASS!”

or

“Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore haven’t signed a joint pact with the devil to prolong their whorishly talentless careers, MY ASS!”

Alas, no. I’m not currently in the acutely grave frame of mind necessary to take part in the heated debate that these important topics would doubtlessly inspire. I’d need weeks of researching “Us” magazine and “E!” Entertainment Television to bone up for such disputes, and I’m sure I’d need a sponsor to fund a rigorous training program.

Or … and I don’t know why it would occur to you, or why it occurred to me, for that matter … another semantic possibility is that I plan to present My Ass as a character in this little comic strip of mine. Given my absurd penchant for the personification of my body parts (I’ve recently named my uterus “Cyndi”), such an assumption would be neither surprising nor off-putting. Perhaps you are expecting a dialogue of sorts, in which My Ass is introduced to another person in a traditional sense.

Like, maybe I plan to introduce My Ass to a person named, say, Shaneequah.

“Shaneequah, My Ass. My Ass, Shaneequah.”

Something like that.

Nay, my friends. My Ass is more shy than it looks. (And you would look.)

Of course, those two possibilities are mere shavings off of the iceberg of possible topics inspired by the phrase “My Ass.” The actual focus of this writing, however, is actually far simpler than that. So, let’s shimmy back up to the very peak of that berg, the epicenter, if you will, from which all other ass-related topics have ballooned. (I’m fully aware that icebergs form from the bottom, up, as opposed to ballooning out from the peak. But get off My Ass. MY ASS! YAY!)

BEHOLD!

My Ass.

I’m feeling unforgivably fat of late, and I ricochet violently from hating the fatness, to seeing that I’m not fat, to fuck-the-world loving my self-perceived fatness like Queen of the Rubenesque, and so I’ve decided to explore the vices and virtues of the body part that started it all. Come along, if you will.

So, I’m in 5th grade, marching to the library in a single file line along with the rest of my class, when I hear Kellie M say from directly behind me, “You’ve got a big butt. But it looks good on you.”

I did not thank her. I don’t remember my response. It was an innocent comment, albeit weird, and I’m sure she did not intend for it to have any impact at all, and surely didn’t foresee the absurd impact it ultimately had. At the time, it was wee six-pointed flake amid the storm of thinly-veiled, malicious oaths spoken by evil pre-teen girls. However, that little flake somehow found it’s way to the apex of Mount Kilamanjaro and rolled all the way to the foot, gathering up other unwitting flakes in it’s path. It eventually became an enormous, abominable snowball of Body Dysmorphism* and insecurity, which then hit a wall and exploded into a bunch of wet, messy, traffic-obstructing “issues.” But(t) it all started with My Ass.

Yup. Silly, I know, but no sooner had Kellie uttered those words than I started obsessing about My Ass. Then, the diets started, with one goal in mind: Shrink the Ass. I became hungrier and hungrier, and increasingly obsessed. I’d check the mirror every chance I could, not out of vanity, but out of an irrational terror that since the last time I’d checked, My Ass had expanded to several times it’s normal size, and had perhaps even started budding little asslets. This is not an unusual story, but(t): I never ate between my little meals, I exercised every goddamned day (going jogging through 18 inches of snow while being chased by the neighbor’s retriever is one of the things one must do in the quest for Superass), I did “Buns of Steel” videos featuring a male ex-tennis player in pink spandex. I was perpetually disgusted with myself. I wanted a flat ass, and I thought whatever was on my backside was some sort of punishable mutation.

Somehow, in my militant dedication to Operation: Shrinkass, I failed to notice that the rest of me had gotten quite skinny. I had no appreciation for my overall slimness and muscle tone, and was so fixated on the boo-tay that I had absolutely no concept of my overall appearance.

In my skinny days, I was friends with a couple of boys who once told me that they had “spent, like, 20 minutes talking about [my] ass, hork-hork.” I wasn’t insulted, really, but it occurred to me that a person has to be really stupid to dedicate 20 minutes of mental energy to conversing about one girl’s ass. And these particular guys were rather limited in vocabulary, so it’s not like they were composing Neruda-esque odes or anything. It was probably a lot of melon-squeeze gesticulation and “aww, maaan.” I wasn’t friendly with them for much longer after that.

Since those days, I’ve gained about 40 pounds. Funny thing, people who knew me then and know me now, they seem not to notice, and many of them say I look better now. My weight gain, while not welcome on my part, has been pretty much proportional. I mean, it’s given me more belly than I may prefer, but it’s also yielded more welcome flesh in the boobal and buttal areas. I have come to terms with the fact that no matter how much I shrink, I will always have a prominent ass. I’ve also learned that that’s not such a bad thing.

When I was in London, I was in an elevator (or, a “lift,” hee,) with some friends. The door was being held open for others who were running to board the elevator, when two completely shit-faced blokes outside of the elevator started mindlessly accosting one of the guys who was holding the elevator door. I couldn’t discern the reason for the conflict, which basically looked like a lot of drunken dick-swinging, but the silly drunk boys on the outside eventually won. After a mightily triumphant guffaw, one of the drunk boys threw out a final insult to the door-holder, and then concluded the argument by pointing at me and yelling, “And you’ve got a cute arse!”

Then, the doors closed and we ascended, laughing.

I’m glad I have and Ass. I saw an birdy old man on the bus yesterday, who had absolutely no extraneous flesh on his Ass. Sitting, as a result, appeared rather painful for him. When he got off the bus, he walked as if a powerful magnet embedded in his forehead was forcibly drawing him uphill. I sighed for him, and shifted comfortably and appreciatively in my seat.

“Oh,” you think, “that I were a pillow upon that seat, that I might touch those cheeks!” As well you should wish, my loves. As well you should wish.

My Ass is blessedly ass-shaped. I suffer not from secretary-spread, in which all ass-meat is distributed to the upper and lower areas of each cheek, resulting in a wide but table-like flatness. Nor do I have from saddlebags, in which the ass in question is disproportionately fatted around the hips and bottom-bottom. Not that those are horrid afflictions, mind you, but I like my ass-shaped ass. Not to say that My Ass is one of those freakishly buoyant spherical miracles of gravity defiance so envied among Hollywood and Uber Tae Bo circles, because that’s not the case. But(t), it is round and perky and rather squeezable. It always has been. And I like it that way.

Hee – I can’t stop laughing about the prospect of my ever introducing My Ass to someone named “Shaneequa.”

I also find it pretty funny that I managed to write a good thousand-plus words extolling the virtues of My Ass. THAT WAS SO MUCH FUN! I AM THE GREATEST PERSON WHO EVER LIVED!

Yay. Be well.

* Ahem: By the way, the OCD Center of Los Angeles says that “The primary distinguishing feature of Body Dysmorphic Disorder (BDD) is an obsessive preoccupation with a perceived defect in one's physical appearance. BDD obsessions may manifest as excessive, disproportionate concerns about a minor flaw, or as recurrent, anxiety-provoking thoughts about an entirely imagined defect. The obsessions are most frequently focused on the head and face, but may involve any body part. BDD goes beyond normal concern with one's appearance, and may significantly impair academic and professional functioning, as well as interpersonal relationships. In extreme cases, an individual may completely shun any contact with people in an effort to avoid having the defect being observed by others. “

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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