Stupid body

You probably didn’t know this, but I have issues with my body. No. Really. It occurred to me that as late as 15 years ago I had to do some pretty serious searching to find something a normal person would think issue-worthy. Of course, I’m not normal, so I’ve been tracking and bemoaning this mess of mine since my butt dropped in 1995. Yes, butts drop.

The day it happened to me, I had no idea. I assumed the sun would be my Waterloo. Or my 17 years of smoking. My poor diet. Something outside of me that I could control if I wanted to. But this! I felt like the girl in that one movie: “THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE! REPEAT. THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE.”

Here’s how it went. I was minding my own business, buying my daily Pepsi, and when I bent over to get the Pepsi out of the box—the old kind with ice water in it—I felt my load shift. I knew immediately something terrible had taken place, but it wasn’t till I put on a two-piece bathing suit that afternoon that I knew just what had happened. The elastic around the legs was where it always was—you know. Around my legs. But the elastic around my hips. Oh! That elastic was a full quarter inch below my tan line.

A quarter inch, people! I was dumbfounded. I knew it happened to other women. I’d heard stories. I just didn’t think it could happen to me. And yet there I was.
I thought I might have to lie down in a dark room for a bit, but I took respite in the one thing that had seen me through many tribulations. Denial. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe my bathing suit bottom just shrank. Or maybe it wasn’t even my bathing suit. Maybe somebody had crept into the house and—well. Anything could have happened.

I stood in front of the mirror and thought about the last time something really important fell. By “important” I don’t mean any stupid wall or country. I’m talking serious stuff here. Like breasts. In the seventies we used the pencil test to assess the perkiness of said breasts. Under the truly perky breast there was nowhere to tuck a pencil. I stopped checking when mine went from perky to petulant. Oh, like you’ve never tried to ignore an unpleasant fact? Please.

Anyway, I realized that the pencil test would work for butts, too. You’d think that since I’d already been betrayed by my breasts I would prefer to remain ignorant of the perfidy of my butt. But no. If there’s anything I am, it’s a glutton for punishment.

I had to go all the way to Wal-Mart to find a Ticonderoga #2 pencil, and then I had to buy a whole package of them. That’s all right, though. You can’t trust something of this magnitude to a generic pencil that says “Chambers Feed Store” or “Gibble Gas” or something. And anyway, I figured I could save the others to test for future shifts in my body-scape. Or to prop things up so they didn’t fall, you know, like little bitty jacks.

I went home, double-locked the door, and closed the curtains. I shut the pencils and myself in the bathroom. After I sat on the edge of the bathtub for ten minutes, I took a deep breath, dropped my shorts and did the pencil test. I used five pencils. Not all at once. Jeeze, people. I just wanted to account for any variation in diameter.

I finally had to admit it. My butt had gone south. Not far. Like, if the back of my knees was Oklahoma City my butt hadn’t even made it to the turnpike gate. Still. I was unnerved, and there was nothing for it but to lie down with a wet cloth on my forehead. At least if I was horizontal everything would stay where it was.

Since then, I’m determined not to be caught off guard again. I’ve been keeping a close eye on me, and I have to say, it’s pretty much a full-time job. My friends don’t seem to get it. They’re like, “Hey, you want to go to a movie?” and I’m all like, “Are you freaking kidding me? How can I keep track of my deterioration in the dark?” And the other day, somebody asked if I wanted to go to the fair. Really? They expect me to get on some carnival ride that spins you so fast your head goes one way and the skin on your face goes the other? I do not think so. I’m having quite enough trouble as it is keeping my cheeks on my face and not clinging for dear life to my neck. I don’t even look over my shoulder before I change lanes anymore.

I’m looking forward to the day they start making head-to-toe Spanx. When that time comes, do not get between me and Dillard’s. I will run you over.