All I want for Christmas is a butt. It’s a lot to ask I know but it’s something that I have wanted ever since I was old enough to notice the extra “seat” in my trousers. I am, of course, referring to that wad of material that bunches as you walk when you have nothing to fill the back of your pants but hope, dear friends. If I have ever had a conversation with anyone, I have invariably discussed the complexities of trying to be fabulous while wearing husky-sized Tuffskins. That statement encapsulates my childhood. I feel sure that many other episodes and character traits were in play during my formative years, but all I remember was the feeling that somehow I had been switched at birth and there was a sad preppy family in the North (I was always hot natured as a child) who was stuck with a red-headed redneck and they spent their days doing extraordinary things, pining away for their long lost son.
Chad Wolf was a boy who was born on the same day in the same hospital as I (Lake Providence, LA for those who don’t know). I felt, for many years, that perhaps the parents of the Wolf family were really mine. That is until we met them unexpectedly at a football game in Texas when I was in the seventh grade. I was very unhappy to find that they were more like us than we were. The only difference between Chad and I was that his Buster Brown haircut did not have a cowlick.
Don't get me wrong, my childhood was not unhappy, my Mother was an exceptionally fabulous person; it was more that I felt out of place. It’s not even like I was the black sheep of the family. I would have traded my fake Members Only jacket to be a sheep of any color. I felt more like the plaid koala bear. What happens to plaid koala bears in a herd of sheep? They feel a never-ending weirdness. At least that stupid Ugly Duckling was a bird. Where’s my image-affirming children’s book? But I've grown up so everything should be okay, right? Well, I can tell you the only difference between a baby plaid koala bear and an adult plaid koala bear is the financial means to buy more plaid and the limited ability to not seem uncomfortable should sheep-like behavior and/or sheep-adjacent activities become necessary.
Back to my butt, or lack thereof. I inherited this lovely physical trait from my Daddy. I guess it could be worse. My butt is teeny-tiny, but it has many butt-like qualities. It is, in fact, butt-esque. Butt-onic if you will. His butt on the other hand doesn't even contain the essence of a butt. It's the mere memory of a butt that may have been. It’s not even flat, it’s actually concave. It’s less than a butt. It’s an anti-butt. There’s more meat on a chicken neck, people.
On his 70-year-old self, it’s not a bad as it could be I suppose. However, on my 41-year-old-thinking-I'm-cute self, it looks as if I have been wearing my pants for three weeks non-stop the minute I put them on freshly pressed from the dry cleaners. I age about 30 years from front to back. It's so bad, I could get a senior citizen's discount at Denny's if I were to walk into the restaurant backwards.
My assistant, Marie told me about a product that will give you a fanny, so to speak. She had noticed my lack of derriere and, like me, has no filter. Apparently there is underwear that has fake butt cheeks built in. What a technological marvel. She suggested I buy one. I informed her that I felt enough shame purchasing my Spanx t-shirts at Nordstroms and tried to do so only late in the evening while wearing a ball cap and jeans just in case someone recognizes me. I would NEVER by fake-butt panties or whatever you call them. I just want a normal butt. I don't need a Kim Kardashian or a Jennifer Lopez sized butt; I just need a tiny cheek. Because the only thing worse than a man with no butt is a man with a big ol' woman butt. Can I get an Amen?
I feel compelled to tell you that I only buy those over-priced spandex t-shirts because they are a medical necessity. They keep all the excess skin from my significant post-surgery weight loss under control and in a reasonable facsimile of a normal body. Without them, I am unpretty, dear readers. Unclothed, I look like an uncooked turkey after a steam. Consequently, the only time I am unclothed is in the shower and that is due to the knowledge that showering in your underwear is, well, stupid. A fact I wish I had known at the age of 12. This bit of childhood trauma is etched in my memory as the only time I showered in the locker room after a football game in junior high. Most of the time I just went home sweaty and stinky. Well, as sweaty and stinky as you get standing on the sidelines talking to the cheerleaders. I was short, chubby and had a bad self-image which was not helped by the fact that my locker mate had a visible moustache. In the 7th grade. I called him Burt Reynolds behind his back due to that and his thinning hair. Now that I think of it, how old was this guy? For several years after the incident (which he not only pointed out to everyone in the locker room but also recounted the next week for all who would listen), I suffered panic attacks anytime I heard running water or saw a black Trans Am. A water park advertisement during a Smokey and the Bandit marathon would render me catatonic.
But I have persevered despite my many physical peculiarities. Like my Daddy, I also have oddly short legs. At 6’, my inseam is 29”. It could be worse, I suppose, his inseam is 27”. From the waist down we could have our own reality show on TLC. To give the illusion of normal length legs, I wear my pants so high that my belt buckle is at my belly button. But it looks normal. No one would ever know. Until now, I suppose. Hmm. I didn’t think this through. Can you just un-read that last sentence? Then we could go back to where I imagined we were which was where you felt I was fabulous and I agreed wholeheartedly. Buying into someone's delusion is an inexpensive gift, folks. Just saying.
Which brings me back to Christmas gifts. My Daddy recently gave me insight into what he wanted this season. We were returning from a quasi-rare dinner out when we passed a Harley Davidson motorcycle and he said, “I wish I had that fella’s hog (motorcycle enthusiast vernacular for, well, a motorcycle) and he had a feather up his butt. Then we’d both be tickled.” Now, I don’t think I can get him either of those things, seeing as how I am not about to buy a Harley or a feather. But I do think that I can find him something he'll like. He has mentioned on more than one occasion that he feels I am "mean" in my oversight of his diet. How dare I try to keep candy and soda from a diabetic? What's my problem? At this point, I think he’d be thrilled on Christmas morning to be allowed to drink an entire Mountain Dew in one sitting (FYI: serving size is 2. Check the bottle) without my signature look that is a mixture of condescension and pity. When you set the bar low, you're pretty sure to exceed it, right?
Anyway, Happy Holidays!
No comments:
Post a Comment