Ode to My Ass
I had a shower and stupidly looked in the mirror and noticed that my ass has become totally FLAT. As in pancake. As in the Flat Earth Society. As in I am as old as the sun and my ass has no lift left in it. As in I am ready for ass implants. Shall I go on? Didn't think so.
Yes, that's right. Me, ready for ass implants. Me, the one who has vowed never to get a facelift or any other "adjustment" or "improvement" of any kind. Ever. Yes, I want ass implants. And I want them yesterday.
My ass was never my best feature. Ask anyone who knows me. It's never been plump and rosy, like J-Lo's or Halle Berry's. Man, if I could look even a quarter as good as Halle...My "better" feature would be my legs, or at least they WERE my legs until I hit my 40s and my body as I knew it left this earthly sphere and was replaced by some alien's varicose-veined, cellulited, hairy and not-so-shapely shape. I now have the body of an eggplant, but somewhat hairier.
This is not my ass. Where has my ass gone? Wherefore art thou, oh ass of mine?
My legs have, I believe, always been my saving grace. Certainly not my ass. Or my breasts, for that matter. My legs, on the other hand, are not too bad. At least, that is, they weren't too bad. Not until I hit 40 and my body went to hell with the devil's brother and his extended family. I have long and thinnish legs, they take up a good half of my entire body length. Sounds weird, I know. I have no waist. Now, my legs go up to my breasts. It's legs, breasts, neck, head. That would be the extent of me as I am. So, although I may have at one point in my life had not-too-bad legs, I have absolutely NOTHING else going for me any longer.
Have you noticed I've mentioned the age "40" quite a bit in this post? Bitter, you ask? Nah, that doesn't even come close to describing the tension my innards are under when I think about my age and decrepitude.
My legs have done me well over the years, but at 40, and two kids later, they started showing their age. The spider veins that people talk about of which I knew nothing suddenly made their appearance quite profoundly. In fact, it seemed to happen overnight. One night, I went to bed with gorgeous, lily white, porcelain smooth legs, and the next morning, I awoke to a map with directions to Russia. And I'm talking a raised-relief map, replete with mountainous ridges and deep valleys, the exposed veins becoming various tributaries.
There's no real excuse for my ass getting flat, though. What major activities has it been through for it to falter and fail like that, besides the odd fart or jiggle as I waddle from bedroom to bathroom, then to kitchen? Has it carried my body for 40-odd years as my legs have? Has it nursed two babies and endured countless fondlings as my breasts have? Has it encountered numerous blowdries and curling irons and product as has my hair? Has it stretched to the ultimate and given birth to two children, one of whom was almost 10 pounds? I dare say NOT!
My ass' deflation is a reflection of my inner self, a resounding and indisputable announcement of the loss of my youth, my health, my beauty such as it is. No longer do I look forward to seeing myself in the mirror and closely examining myself, playing with my clothing and make-up, and trying different hairstyles. No. Now, my time in front of the mirror entails magnified criticism, every inch of my body under close examination. I almost ache in my attempt to find something -- anything -- that has fallen, wrinkled, or dropped. I don't want to look, but I have to. It's now a compulsion to detail my every crevice, my every age spot. It's either that, or I cover all the mirrors in the house with black sheets, and warn the children not to peek underneath because the devil lives there.
But that wouldn't be fair to Milly, being 13 years old and just beginning the oh-so-wonderful "me and no one else" stage of life. It wouldn't be fair to Dennis either since he lives to watch his bulging biceps move as he brushes his teeth. And, of course, Mr. Handsome would then also have to live without being able to look at his voluminous hair every morning, running his fingers through it, then nodding appreciatively and proudly, making sure I see that he need not bring nary a brush nor comb anywhere near his head for his hair to look stunningly wonderful. Whatever.
So, I suppose the last resort for me is to (a) not look in the mirror when I get out of the shower, (2) only look at my right ear since that is the only remaining body part I own that I cannot yet criticize, or (3) anyone know where I can get ass implants CHEAP?
Yes, that's right. Me, ready for ass implants. Me, the one who has vowed never to get a facelift or any other "adjustment" or "improvement" of any kind. Ever. Yes, I want ass implants. And I want them yesterday.
My ass was never my best feature. Ask anyone who knows me. It's never been plump and rosy, like J-Lo's or Halle Berry's. Man, if I could look even a quarter as good as Halle...My "better" feature would be my legs, or at least they WERE my legs until I hit my 40s and my body as I knew it left this earthly sphere and was replaced by some alien's varicose-veined, cellulited, hairy and not-so-shapely shape. I now have the body of an eggplant, but somewhat hairier.
This is not my ass. Where has my ass gone? Wherefore art thou, oh ass of mine?
My legs have, I believe, always been my saving grace. Certainly not my ass. Or my breasts, for that matter. My legs, on the other hand, are not too bad. At least, that is, they weren't too bad. Not until I hit 40 and my body went to hell with the devil's brother and his extended family. I have long and thinnish legs, they take up a good half of my entire body length. Sounds weird, I know. I have no waist. Now, my legs go up to my breasts. It's legs, breasts, neck, head. That would be the extent of me as I am. So, although I may have at one point in my life had not-too-bad legs, I have absolutely NOTHING else going for me any longer.
Have you noticed I've mentioned the age "40" quite a bit in this post? Bitter, you ask? Nah, that doesn't even come close to describing the tension my innards are under when I think about my age and decrepitude.
My legs have done me well over the years, but at 40, and two kids later, they started showing their age. The spider veins that people talk about of which I knew nothing suddenly made their appearance quite profoundly. In fact, it seemed to happen overnight. One night, I went to bed with gorgeous, lily white, porcelain smooth legs, and the next morning, I awoke to a map with directions to Russia. And I'm talking a raised-relief map, replete with mountainous ridges and deep valleys, the exposed veins becoming various tributaries.
There's no real excuse for my ass getting flat, though. What major activities has it been through for it to falter and fail like that, besides the odd fart or jiggle as I waddle from bedroom to bathroom, then to kitchen? Has it carried my body for 40-odd years as my legs have? Has it nursed two babies and endured countless fondlings as my breasts have? Has it encountered numerous blowdries and curling irons and product as has my hair? Has it stretched to the ultimate and given birth to two children, one of whom was almost 10 pounds? I dare say NOT!
My ass' deflation is a reflection of my inner self, a resounding and indisputable announcement of the loss of my youth, my health, my beauty such as it is. No longer do I look forward to seeing myself in the mirror and closely examining myself, playing with my clothing and make-up, and trying different hairstyles. No. Now, my time in front of the mirror entails magnified criticism, every inch of my body under close examination. I almost ache in my attempt to find something -- anything -- that has fallen, wrinkled, or dropped. I don't want to look, but I have to. It's now a compulsion to detail my every crevice, my every age spot. It's either that, or I cover all the mirrors in the house with black sheets, and warn the children not to peek underneath because the devil lives there.
But that wouldn't be fair to Milly, being 13 years old and just beginning the oh-so-wonderful "me and no one else" stage of life. It wouldn't be fair to Dennis either since he lives to watch his bulging biceps move as he brushes his teeth. And, of course, Mr. Handsome would then also have to live without being able to look at his voluminous hair every morning, running his fingers through it, then nodding appreciatively and proudly, making sure I see that he need not bring nary a brush nor comb anywhere near his head for his hair to look stunningly wonderful. Whatever.
So, I suppose the last resort for me is to (a) not look in the mirror when I get out of the shower, (2) only look at my right ear since that is the only remaining body part I own that I cannot yet criticize, or (3) anyone know where I can get ass implants CHEAP?
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