Unfortunately for me, I had the bad luck of being a teenager before the word "bootylicious" became part of the American lexicon.
I first discovered I had an ample rear end when my older sister, after suffering a particularly hard loss of "Candyland" to me, said, "You have a big butt."
Of course, being five, the news didn't bother me. My sisters liked to use my bottom as a head rest when watching TV, and I only had to pretend penitence when being punished for stealing cookies out of the cookie jar: my bum conveniently functioned as a protective barrier against spankings.
It wasn't until I was in my teens that having a bubble butt became the source of embarrassment. I started to run 4 miles a day in a feeble attempt to lose the bulge, but my butt stubbornly kept pace. I could feel it jiggling behind me, swaying up and down and side to side; despite my attempts to lose it in a cloud of dust, my booty was actually enjoying the ride.
I wore loose-fitting dresses in an effort to disguise my disformity, but it was like trying to hide the Empire State Building by throwing a washcloth over it. I became an expert at walking with my butt to the walls in school, although when I side-swiped a trash can outside the chem lab with my left butt cheek, I decided that my "drastic" situation called for a drastic measure, lest I inadvertently make my HS a dumping ground to rival that of the Meadowlands.
I soon made an appointment with a local cosmetic surgeon to liposuction the fat out of my butt. He told me that once the fat cells were removed, they would never grow back. I took one last, hard look at my rear end, turned to the doctor, and said, "Do you have anything you could give me for a sore neck?" After he supplied me with some Tylenol, I gave him the go-ahead to sculpt my butt into something less resembling a bubble.
On the day of my surgery, the doctor and his assistant had me undress and marked my butt up with lines and arrows that reminded me of one of John Madden's light-pen diagrams. The anesthesiologist inserted the needle into the back of my hand (a very uncomfortable and weird place for a needle to be, in my opinion), and I promptly succombed to the drugs.
When I awoke, I was freezing. My body trembled, as if in mourning for my ass. Even though I was black and blue and had six more weeks of recovery before I would fully be able to enjoy my new bum, I felt as if a weight had been lifted off of me. Indeed, the doctor most likely sucked up about 8-10 pounds worth of fat from each cheek, if not a ton.
Now, ten years later, as I sit typing on my still small but shapely derriere, I can honestly say I have no regrets. In fact, my self-confidence soared as a result of the surgery. No longer was I self-conscious--I proudly walked in a straight line as opposed to the odd side-step of my youth.
Of course, butt augmentation is at an all-time high now, and what once was considered an embarrassing feature is now a valued asset, but I finally learned to love my body, and that to me, is worth all the booty in the world. I've learned that beauty is subjective, and that there is no ideal, as it constantly changes. Beauty is cyclical: what goes around, comes around.
I'm now excitedly awaiting the time when jiggly underarms become all the rage. Until then, I will raise my arm, jiggly underside and all, and defiantly give the one-finger-salute to anyone who has a problem with my body, because it is mine, and it is beautiful.