I wasn’t ready for this.
There’s no other way to say it, and that’s a little embarrassing. I am forty years old, and after withstanding and accepting the hilarious and cartoonish changes in my body for three pregnancies, I should think I wouldn’t be floored by this. And yet, I am.
See, since I started attending Pilates and spin/Pilates combo classes, which are kicking me in the a** in a good way, I’m noticing a difference in the lay of my land. Changes are afoot. I thought I would be excited and proud. Rather, I am stunned.
I have a butt. I’ve never had one, but boom. There it is.
I’m not whining or complaining, nor am I bragging or lording this over my kind, the a**less people. It’s more akin to finding chin hair for the first time. It’s just… weird. Unbelievable. It’s not there for your whole life and then whammo! You look at yourself in the mirror and there it is. But unlike chin hairs, I can’t merely tweeze my butt to make it go away (until it grows back weeks later, thicker than ever). In fact, “tweezing” your butt makes it bigger.
A butt. Of all the things… I love Pilates, I love the concept of strengthening my core and lengthening my muscles, not bulking them out. It’s not like I imagined I was going to grow another six inches and stretch out my manly-man calf muscles. My arms have definition now when I lift heavy objects, like children or bottles of wine, and if I walk around holding a half bicep curl, they look fairly decent. That’s nice. Surprising, but nice. It’s just that with all of the focus going into my core muscles, the first changes I imagined I’d see would be in my core muscles. My waistline.
But oh no. Thanks to my faithful enjoyment of nighttime ice cream (Live a little! Allow a reasonable amount in the bowl! But pay no attention to what you eat out of the container!), my belly is just as soft and yielding and friendly as ever, casually slung over the tops of my jeans like a shabby chic bean bag – filled, yet deflated, wrapped in organic cotton. If I got serious about cutting out all sweets, it would resemble a contoured sheet on a clothesline. Empty sack-ish is my ultimate goal. Aim high! But it’s comfy, in a creepy sort of way – soft, in a way skin shouldn’t be. (The term “muffin top” could apply, yet it suggests entirely too much structure.) I mean, it’s just me – lots of the softer side of me.
The one thing I got from my father was his flat-a**. Not much more, but what I got from him has followed me my entire life, regardless of my weight, size, or use of Spanx. A few months ago, when I went out to purchase new exercise clothing for the first time in over a decade, the cute, plucky little sales girl, who was amazed when I told her exactly how big a cup size I achieved when I was nursing my babies, brought me these “wonder pants” that had the power to lift my derriere. A doubting Thomas was I.
Enter a challenge and one raging case of morbid curiosity.
After my insisting that one must first have a butt before having it lifted, she went all Dr. Seuss on me, the Sam I Am of Wonder Pants: “Try them! Try them! You will see!” So, after shimmying my way into them and thanking God there are no surveillance cameras in dressing rooms, I turned to the mirror and found that, lo and behold, my butt stuck out. I mean, it was out there. I pranced around the changing stall with my good friend bearing witness to that fact that I was, in fact, shaped and lifted. I couldn’t stop looking at it. It felt artificial and prosthetic like a pair of Groucho Marx glasses, only not nearly as natural. I couldn’t stop laughing. I couldn’t stop exclaiming, “Look at my butt!” And something inside of me couldn’t keep from slapping it! What the hell was that all about?
My bottom line was that those pants were ridiculous. What is the point? Why? LOOK GOOD WHILE SWEATING A SMALL SEA? Are you for real?! A butt is not something you choose to wear if it’s clean, nor should you be able to put it on or take it off, like a Mr. Potato Head. It’s just a butt!! Those pants were putting on airs, and that is something I cannot get behind when straining away in a spin/Pilates combo class. What do I care what it looks like when doing (my best interpretation of) a plank? They are not going to make me any more capable, or give me sudden, greater flexibility. If anything, they were binding. (Bah! Pants of Counter-Productivity!) But, I suppose during the spin portion of the class, if I fall off the cycle before disengaging my shoe clips from the pedals (new much?) and I wind up face-first on the floor, I can take comfort in knowing that while I might look utterly stupid, my butt will look smart, pertly waving in the air, saying hi, engaging with everyone in the class.
Needless to say, I opted out of the Wonder Pants. Because I liked and was comfortable with my flat butt.
Man, change is hard.
So, this new development – this new and very REAL butt of mine – is an unintended and unforeseen consequence to getting healthy. A consequence to getting healthy? This was not in the plan. I never made allowances for it, so now I might have a new set of problems. Keeping things in perspective, they’re first-world problems. Good problems. But all things being relative… One of my goals in getting into better shape is to comfortably wear the clothes I already own, and I stand by this. Shopping for new clothes is out of the question. But. This new butt won’t fit into those pants. So creatively, I will have to find a way to wear them.
Maybe I’ll get lucky. Maybe I’ve been merely stung by a bee and didn’t know it. Maybe it will be too hot to wear pants this summer. Maybe Lou Ferrigno-inspired skinny capris, ventilated by a little shredding from the mid-calf to the upper thigh, will become all the rage this year. Or maybe white denim leg warmers…
Sleeps With Her Eyes Open 