Whenever I get naked with a guy, one of the first things they notice is my ass. ‘Wow, you have a REALLY big ass.’ I give them my ‘whatever” face and shrug. ‘I know, boo, I’ve been sitting on it for almost 22 years now.’
I don’t like it when people point out the junk in my trunk. It’s too obvious.
When I was 2 years old, my parents (and their friends: those jerks,) used to call me Buddha because I was a fat baby who liked to crawl around in the lotus position. As I got older, the fat left my body and I became the skinny bitch I am today. But the fat down below didn’t give up so easily, and so I always had a nice cushion to sit on.
It’s probably a family curse. We, Lansbergen ladies, are the victim of our own genes. My sister has a big ass, my grandmother has a big ass, my great grandmother probably had a big ass too. We’re all a bunch of big assed losers. A fact we often like to point out to one another.
There are a lot of times I’m fed up with the bubble that’s sticking out of my back. When I look in the mirror I think to myself, ‘Well done Bernard! You totally stopped eating long enough so your ribcage is visible again.’ But when I look further down I can never deny the perfectly round alien that’s popping out of my body.
Maybe I wouldn’t have had this problem if I had been 22 in a time that’s more relevant to my ass, like the late 90’s. I remember J.Lo dancing around on a postcard, screaming that her love didn’t cost a thing while she shook her moneymaker. Whenever her videos played, I would say to myself, ‘You’re SO lucky you have a family full of big asses, you’ve got your future sex appeal under control. Right on, ladiesman!’ How was I supposed to know that the skin-and-bones look would become the look of the new millennium?! (And how was I to know I wasn’t into J.Lo because of her booty, but because of her male back-up dancers?!) The day I woke up and discovered my ass wasn’t an asset anymore was a very depressing day, but after a while, I learned to live with the burden on my back. I tried to move on.
I have to say, though, that when I’m at a club and a good ass shaking song comes on, (basically every non-ballad Beyoncé has released) I get my ass on the dancefloor and show all of those skinny figureless bitches what I got. It’s moments like these that make me realize how truly blessed I am by the junk in my trunk.
So if you’re ever at the same club as me, come and say hello, I’ll buy you a drink. And afterwards you can watch me on the floor celebrating what my daddy gave me. (My mom has got her measurements in check.) And when Beyoncé sings, ‘Who runs the world ?’, I shall shout back, ‘My ass does.’