I’m thinking about requesting a pair of Zumba pants for Christmas, so last night I asked the instructor what size she thought I would wear.
“Turn around, so I can see you from the side,” she said.
“Well, you’re a lot like me. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t really have a butt either.”
She swiveled, showing me the rest of a body that I would so love to have.
“If I were you, I’d go with a medium,” she added.
I smiled and thanked her.
But really, inside my head, there was a total fiesta going on. We’re talking confetti eggs, pinatas, streamers, the works.
She said I have no butt! She said I have NO BUTT!!!
I wanted to hug her.
My rear has long been the bane of my existence. During both of my pregnancies, I looked as though I was carrying twins — one located in the front, the other in the back. I mean, my butt EXPLODED, people.
When I was pregnant with the E-man, I was embarrassed twice by comments about the size of my derierre.
One day, when I was walking into work, a female security guard hollered, “Girl, I know you must be having a boy! I can tell just by looking at your backside!”
Another day, I walked into a restaurant, where I was meeting a group of Child Protective Services for lunch. I had been following two of them around for weeks while working on a story. Their secretary, an older woman, also was there.
“Oh my,” she said. “Look at that rear. Are you having a boy?”
A dozen heads swiveled to check out my butt. I prayed for a remark in my defense, but no one uttered a word. How could they, when the evidence was so plainly in front of them.
Thing is, my butt was huge during my first pregnancy as well. And at that time, I was having a girl.