Tuesday, March 27, 2012

I don't like big butts and I cannot buy

Every morning, my four children wake me up and we begin The Morning Routine which consists of Shepherd complaining that he doesn't like the cereal and me begging Eva Rose to somehow accessorize her hair "It's like a present without a bow!" and Ike saying, "OATMEAL!" and me saying, "May I have some oatmeal please" and Ike answering "Oatmeal peas" and me saying  "Maggie have you done your Morning Expectations?" and Maggie saying "Oh I fuhgot" and me saying, "You have five minutes Maggie or you will watch NO My Little Pony today" and Maggie beginning to twitch a little at the sheer thought of the Fluttershy withdrawals as she gradually goes about the exhausting tasks of getting her shoes on and brushing her teeth.

Then I stand on the street corner in my robe, coffee cup in hand, and furrow my brow worriedly as the three big kids skip along the three blocks to school while my mind races with images of speeding teenagers and highly skilled kidnappers.

Afterwards I get dressed to take Ike to preschool. There, dodging strollers and toddlers, I run him in, and run out. The moms smile at me and I smile back and most of them are wearing yoga pants, which along with a baseball cap and a smidge of lipstick, is The Official Uniform for Preschool Dropoff.

And I love yoga pants. I do. I think they are one of the greatest inventions of the last decade or so. So much cuter than a sweat pant but with the same comfort level.

But I have issues. With beloved yoga pants.

Because I have a butt.
A badonkadonk.
A donkey booty.
A blessed and bestowed gluteal region.

The funny thing is that until very recently, I thought I had a little butt. It's not like I ever actually see it, and therefore I was under the illusion that it was rather petite. My mother and my husband schooled me that this was an extreme figment of my imagination only a few years ago. The same husband assured me that it was okay, because men like big butts. They even wrote a song about it. And he promises that mine is not quite Kardashian - not that there's anything wrong with that. Even still it's forced me to completely reexamine my own image of myself and truthfully, I'm not. quite. over it. yet.

Which brings us back to the yoga pants.

I had a pair that I liked. I got bleach on them. Dangit.

So last night I ventured out to Target in search of The Perfect Bra, but that's a completely other blog post that I'm quite sure will never be written. After a frustrating time in the bra section I saw them - across the store. Yoga pants. Target had several different styles and lengths and price points so I grabbed about fifteen pair and made my way to the dressing room. Fifteen bras, fifteen yoga pants and me.

None of the bras worked. But that's a whole other blog post that I am quite sure will never be written.

Then I tried on pair after pair after pair after pair of assorted yoga pants, I almost cried in frustration over the same repetitive issue - I just can't handle how much they show off my butt.
Every morning, holding Ike's sticky little hand across the parking lot, I see all the other moms in Uniform and I analyze every mom's respective butt. And their butts may be just as endowed as mine and their yoga pants may be just as tight and I never think to myself "Oh my skull what a hussy" because they are yoga pants. They are supposed to be tight. And they look cute!

Yet when I see my own butt in the mirror at Target?

It looks HUGE and WHORISH.

And let's not even talk about camel toe. How, oh how, do other moms manage to wear yoga pants with no camel toe? HOW?? HOW?? HOW?????

So I left Target, braless, yoga pantless and brokenhearted.



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