To make a long story short, after I returned from New York last fall, I was on the "I'm gonna write a book in the next few months" kick. I absolutely fell in LOVE with Seal Press -- a woman-owned publishing company that's by women and for women. Awesome. They publish controversial topics and things that you wouldn't typically see. They give a voice to the women who have been silenced by the mainstream hanchos because they were too edgy.
While I didn't get around to writing a book, I did come across the call for submissions from these two gals in California. The requirement was a minimum of 2,500 words about some part of your body or something physically-related. You basically had to be upfront and honest about your insecurities in a funny, yet strangely empowering way. I never thought that ripping on my a$$ would be so uplifting and fun.
Turns out that this essay wasn't accepted. However, the women that were editing the anthology so kindly responded to me. Apparently out of hundreds of submissions, they only chose 10. They told me they debated over mine for a long time, but because they had already sought out another woman to contribute something, she just so happened to write about her a$$ as well.
So, here it is. My moment to get this essay out there. Some parts have been cut out to refrain from you getting bored (2,500 words on my cellulite a$$ can get a little old) -- or to save my aunt or father coming across something they don't care to know. You get my drift. Get to reading ... and do feel free to share your own insecurities with me. Whether it be via e-mail or commented below ... let your flaws shine! Boys too!!!
For quite some time now, I've been learning to love the things I loathe about my body. I've learned to deal with my exceptionally large ears. Although I've been told that I resemble a sexy mouse with my hair pulled back and that my ears poke out of my head in a cute way, the words "sexy" and "cute" are all I take with me. I've even managed to accept my moody skin, looking past the time that my grandpa asked me what bit my forehead (as if I didn't already know!). Ignoring the fact that I hope my boobs are growing every time they itch, I've learned to be grateful for petite love sacs. I even appreciate my rather wide hips. They're always screaming, "Yes, I'm destined to birth eight children and carry four at a time," but they shout it with pride!
Oh, but that damn granny a$$ always ruins it. It's about 50 years ahead of my 22-year-old body. The only time that butt gets any lift at all is when my jeans are too small or when I just plain pull it up and hold it with my own two hands.
But, the problem doesn't lie so much in the sagging. It's the fact that, well, I have hail damage.
What's a girl to do when she's got some hail damage to repair? Well, she can't flat out ask anyone in person, because she's supposed to be pretending to love her body in the midst of an image-obsessed culture, remember? But there's always that one reliable, universal option that never fails to give immediate advice. Google.
Sometimes I ask myself why I'm so concerned with the cushiony part of my body that is solely used to sit, and especially the part that I never see unless I choose to turn around and look at it. The obvious response would be bathing suit anxiety, but I'm more concerned with (things you should assume for yourself).
Any medical term referred to as "cottage cheese skin" is bound to put a huge hault to building anyone's self-esteem. However, those words are what triggered me to get my butt in gear!
After weeks of research, I now realize what a royal pain in the a$$ this is. Basically, if you want to cure the unpleasant indentation, you might as well eat, breathe, sleep and live for the sake of a nice butt, and even then... there's no guarantee that you'll get it. And if you do, it's only TEMPORARY!
What drives me crazy are the lists of "quick tips" I've come across during my oh-so-trusty Internet searches. This list seems more complex than all the things they tell you not to do when you're pregnant. Are you ready for this?
Eat fibrous fruits and vegetables, drink plenty of water, don't smoke, and don't drink. (It says smoking causes premature aging and sagging of the skin. Perhaps I smoke in my sleep, because that is a dead-on description of my behind.) Only have one cup of coffee a day, stop eating sugar, stop eating snack foods, and stop eating ALL fried foods, especially those high in saturated and hydrogenated oils. Try not to eat canned foods or basically anything high in salt. Drink plenty of herbal tea and only drink one soda per day if you absolutely have to. Eat four to five times a day, but make sure they're all small meals. Take 1,000 mg of Vitamin C daily, and be sure to maintain a healthy body weight that is normal, of course. Every day you should increase your circulation by massaging the area with a brush, loofah, or massage sponge, and don't forget the almond oil! Last, but definitely not least, work out daily and be sure to stretch.
The way I see it, if you haven't already killed yourself after the first 30 days, you MIGHT start seeing some results if you've let absolutely nothing else consume your thoughts or energy.
Let's pretend that I actually take up this plan. What would a day in the life of a cellulite fighter be like? I'd wake up with one thing on my mind, and what would that be? My a$$. Before my long-awaited trip to the kitchen for that one cup of coffee I'd get for the ENTIRE day, I'd go over my list of off-limit foods and realize that breakfast might as well be skipped. The hunger pangs would take over, and I'd allow myself to have a piece of buttered wheat toast and a glass of orange juice. Waffles? Syrup? Sugar in my coffee? NO! I'm not supposed to enjoy anything because I'm on the path to a nice a$$ that I will never even see! Suppose a friend would invite me out for coffee. My truthful response would be pathetic. "Oh, I can't. I'm watching my a$$. Trying to fight the cellulite and can't have any more caffeine today. Plus, I need to set aside some time to massage my own a$$."
Of course, I couldn't tell her the truth. I'd just slice her phone call and slip into a life of lonely solitude, continuing to tell myself that it's all worth it.
While prepping to get in the shower, I'd see if my naked body had maybe changed overnight, then be forced to cut to the chase. I'd move right to that wonderful moment when I give myself a nice, blinding, cottage cheese sunrise to start the day!
Over time, the identity of my a$$ would slowly transform from just a silly body part to a controlling, possessive companion whose only good quality was listening. During my short lunch, I'd prepare for a long apology to my hiney for eating a greasy, double-cheeseburger paired with many hot and salty fries. I'd say, "So sorry, tushy! I just couldn't take it anymore and today was so insane that I just needed some greasy, fatty, sodium-packed relief. I'll make it up to you with a hot bath and a deep massage before bed. I'll drop all my plans just for you, because you're all that matters."
On that last note, I'm proud to admit that my a$$ hasn't COMPLETELY taken over my life. Although I don't speak to my bum one-on-one or pay attention to my breathing just for the sake of smoothing my caboose, I will admit to changing my diet, exercising more, and asking myself what vulnerable friend would be willing to spread some self-tanner on my bare butt. I'll admit to spending countless hours surfing the absurd advice that lurks on the Web and flexing my butt while I do it.
In fact, the only knowledge I've gained from my aggressive search for simple dimple improvement is that the procedures and products are pricey and pointless. They're meant for a gal with unlimited funds, a hopeful heart and a gullible mind. Any gal who spends over $200 on a pair of shoes that's supposed to help with circulation and thus improve cellulite has a long road ahead.
Thankfully, my head has only been partially shoved up my a$$ throughout this quest to look my best. I realize that the thousands of dollars one woman can spend on all of this could be used to travel the world, pay for an education or start a small business. Some of us don't make enriching our minds and senses a priority. We'd rather throw it all away for the approval of someone else's eyes. We'd rather pay $1,000 for someone to inject a mysterious substance into our backside. We'd even allow someone to use a liquidfat-sucking vacuum device that leaves nothing but severe bruising.
It seems to me that the a$$ is the new face, and some of today's maintenance just confuses me. Those people who dye their *ahem*white remind me of the folks that suddenly strut some obnoxiously colored contacts and expect everyone to think it's natural. Why can't we all just accept the *ahem* we're born with? Unless you drop pearls, I'm guessing that your partner will be able to relate to your "brown eye."
The only difference between this act of insanity and attempting to cure cellulite, is this procedure actually produces results. I'm convinced that the only guaranteed form of maintenance for cottage cheese skin is airbrushing. I'm sorry, but unless J-Lo is part of the small percentage of women blessed with a smooth, shiny hiney, there's no way that the gal has no dents.
Perhaps the sad reality of the lumpy bumpies is related to genetics. It's a special gift passed down from one generation of women to another, and I'm convinced that our gal Eve had a buttload of it. Therefore, instead of dwelling on this uncontrollable phenomenon, I'm beginning to act on what I can change. One of the easiest tricks is to begin glancing at the gluteus maximus in dim light and always steering clear of natural light. Another is to focus on the parts of the body that will never have cellulite. For example, my perky breasts will never experience this horror (although they are doomed to one day say hello to my belly).
The most important trick I've learned is to change my attitude and focus on the things that my bum does in fact do for me. I'm allowed to sit comfortably, thanks to the bulk of my buttocks and although I suffer from an old a$$, I'm thankful to actually have one. There's a big difference between having a 70-year-old woman's flat butt and an 80-year-old man's non-existent butt. If I didn't have one, I'd be lacking the largest muscle in my body. My dance moves would suffer miserably, many sex positions would be impossible, mooning would just be pointless, and it'd be one less choice of things to grab, spank, and shake.
Don't get me wrong. Just because I'm slowly changing my attitude toward what my grandma called the "tutty-ka-putt," doesn't mean that the one-woman nudie show no longer has a soggy, saggy climax. It always has and it always will. Like I said, it's just a matter of accepting the things you can't change about your body and learning to just suck it up and/or suck it in. You can shout "No pain, no gain!" all you want when it comes to suffering from the eight blisters from the new heels, your new push-up bra or from plucking hairs from unseen parts of your body ... but in the end, try to put your energy toward the things you love about yourself. Or better yet -- rip on those parts in a funny way!
All in all ...in the midst of all this, I realize one thing. The price of beauty is a painful, vicious cycle. The second I literally wave good-bye to hating cellulite, I'll be saying hello to jiggling, arm flab. And that my friends, is another story in itself.