Sep
18
Pumpkin butt
September 18, 2005 | |
I’m a proud, card-carrying klutz, as those who know me well know very well. I’ve learned not to fight it and just accept what I now consider to be just another charming Tara-trait. Sometimes, I tell myself, my clumsiness works in my favor. (Take, the time I fell into the lap of that hot guy at that NYU party back in college. He didn’t seem to mind that I was walking around with a cardboard box that I was periodically puking into. But, I’m getting off the subject here.)
This morning, I woke up in the mood for orange. Whether it was the bag of rotting oranges I tossed out of the fridge yesterday, or the yummy-ish pumpkin spice latte I had at B&N the other night, I was really feeling orange. (Course, it could just as well have been the two orange bikinis spilling out of my laundry basket — the first thing I saw upon opening my beautiful browns, this a.m.)
I dug around in the enormous pile of clothes that I keep telling myself to either give away or toss because I was pretty sure I’d seen the waistband of a pair of orange neo-parachute pants in there. I needed to see if they were really as ugly as I thought they were the day I’d relegated them to the pile, or if they were possibly still wearable.
On the way, I found: an orange turtleneck that really is too ugly to wear; a gorgeous, rusty orange fleece scarf; a dark orange T; a lighter orange T; an orange hooded T that’s too ugly to wear unless I’m taking out the garbage or helping someone renovate; and a medium orange, long-sleeved T with a deep V-neck, that I’m keeping regardless of whether it’s ugly or not because it makes me look like I have boobs.
Finally, awash in a sea of what was apparently a favorite color of mine three or four years ago, I found the pants. When I got them, six or so years ago, orange was definitely not in. (It had had a recent brief moment of popularity before plunging back into the depths of everyone’s scorn.) In fact, that’s part of why I got them. The owner of the store was trying to get rid of every pair she’d purchased and had marked them about 75% percent off. When she caught me hesitating, she offered me a 90% discount, and, well hell, I needed pants.
I love orange. I love pumpkins and have been known to threaten folks who drink my OJ with bodily harm. But even I was a little worried about wearing orange pants. Then I tried them on.
I came out of the dressing room (there wasn’t a good mirror in there) feeling a little foolish, but wanting to making a show of trying for the owner. (I don’t know why I feel as if I’ve got make salespersons feel okay — that’s how I ended up with $200 cowboy boots before they’d made a comeback.) At first, she just had a weird combination of bored and eager draped across her face, but when I turned to face the mirror, I could hear the excitement in her voice.
"Oh my god! Your ass is amazing!" she cried. "You’d never guess in those baggy things you’re aways wearing." (I went to her store a lot.)
Now, my ass was a sore spot with me at the time. I was barely two years out of university, where I’d spent all my time with a coterie of slender pinays with little or no butts. Seriously, most of them such had tiny asses, I felt like a freak in their presence. It might have been okay if they’d all had flat butts, but nope. Not my friends. They were shapely, but tiny. (All except for Judy, who though tiny, could give me a run for my money in assdom. But she went to Barnard and wasn’t around much.)
So, I’d started to think that I had this really big, gross ass. I dressed accordingly. But, standing in front of that mirror, seeing that woman’s rapt expression as she stared at my nether regions, I had an epiphany. My butt was amazing. It was beautifully gorgeously round. And I really could bounce a quarter off it — my boyfriend had done it on several occasions.
A couple of weeks after I bought the pants, I wore them to a club where they happened to be having an ass contest. With my newly found pride-in-butt, I leapt onto the stage and shook it with the other women for all it was worth.
Then, the MC said something like "get that tiny orange behind off the stage before you hurt yourself" and poof! whatever lingering doubts I had about the perfection of my ass were gone. It was still round, it was still gorgeous, maybe even amazing. But, according to that MC guy, it was also tiny.
So, I decided to wear the pants today. Not many people are going to see them on a Sunday anyway. Then, in the course of doing laundry, (clumsy me) I managed to knock over about two loads worth of detergent all over my right leg and foot. Most people would take this as a sign and choose something else to wear. I’m made of tougher stuff than that.
It really screwed up my schedule, but I figured I had no choice. I hopped in the shower, still wearing the pants, staying until the water ran clear of bubbles. The I hooped out again, changed my underwear and waited through two dryer cycles. Just to wear ass-inhancing orange pants.
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