Hey, a girl can dream.
Camille, my long time pal, has one I’ve forever been envious of, and she, like anything else we’ve had since birth, treats it with casual indifference.
“Oh big deal,” she’ll say when I tell her how great she looks in a pair of pants. “Your ass is just fine.”
“Alright, so it could use a little padding, but look at the rest of you?”
This consoles for a split second till I see my behind in a mirror looking as if it was stolen right out of my jeans.
We have to make the most of what we have, this I know. My legs are still long and slim, so dresses camouflage my humble hindquarters so who would know. Trouble is, I love leggins and jeans that do tend to make me look like a crayon, and who wants to skip around in a dress all day?
Luckily it bothers me less and less. That’s age for you. It whittles down what’s important and looking like Charlie Chaplin from the rear doesn’t make the cut.
Camille has a waist issue I don’t have, something she reminds of when I’m busy coveting her butt. “You can still wear little tight shirts, when I can’t…unless I want to look like a stuffed pepper that is.”
I laugh when she says this.
It’s certainly a plus when you can make fun of yourself and your anatomical shortcomings.
I also remind her I have hands like catcher’s mitts while hers are slim and elegant.
She tells me to expect another pair of gloves this Christmas to conceal my mitts.
This is usually when one of us says, “Another round please, and make it a triple.”