When you’re a woman busy raising a family, you tend to lose track of certain things: world events, names of former co-workers, and, oh yeah: your ability to attract men. Once you’re elbow-deep in diapers and breaking up sibling warfare, you tend to stop caring whether you‘re a “hottie“ or not. You’re too busy working to “work” it, and you no longer care that your unwashed hair is tied back with one of your kids’ socks.
But when you find yourself “unhalved” and on your own after a decade or two, the differences between you and the other gals tends to get spelled out in vivid relief. Suddenly, little things begin to loom large: skin of younger women, firm and glowing; the ability of their breasts to defy gravity without the use of pulleys, weights and levers; the sounds of males necks snapping as they swivel to get a better look. Meanwhile, you've got new problems: turkey-like loose neck skin and wisps of scowl-hiding bangs getting caught in your crow‘s feet. You’re darned right it’s not for sissies.The hell with it: post-divorce, I went to work at a nursery. Plants, that is, not kids. Primarily because plants don’t talk back or look at you funny when you try to flirt. Plus, the clientele at the nursery tends to be benign: gentle retirees, young moms toting pre-schoolers, lost husbands seeking anniversary gifts. Sweetly unthreatening, just the way I wanted it.
But as it turned out, there were unexpected perks to the job. It turns out the perkiest one of all was something I had been sitting on all my life! I don't want to brag, but it turns out I have a cute butt. Yes, my behind, which I had never noticed (mainly because it’s not in front of me) was suddenly attracting a great deal of attention from my male co-workers. I’m convinced the nursery job application included the question: “If Male, are you an Ass-man? Yes/No. If "No," please do not continue.”
I seemed to have stumbled upon a Secret Order of Worshippers of the Female Gluteus Maximus, and they had made me their Goddess Divine.
Now, there are those of you who think I’m being all conceited, so let me just say this to you: Shut up. I have gone from being a nondescript soccer “Ma’am” to a “Spank-a-licious Mama,” and if you ruin it for me, I will hunt you down and stick my finger in your eye.
“Are you going to wear those black pants tomorrow?“ our 21-year old Houseplant maven, Paul, asked anxiously. I had to laugh: that was Paul’s day off, and he didn't want to miss The Show, starring my Lil Ol’ Moneymaker. Pinch me: younger dudes were anticipating my outfits and hoping for wardrobe failure!
Our 27-year-old Pond-and-Chemical guy, Sean, was particularly pointed in letting me know that he wanted to take my ass-thetic attributes out of the showroom for a road test. It’s flattering, but it’s not the chemistry that’s stopping me, it’s the math: as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I’ve been sexually active longer than he’s been alive, and it’s my policy not to erase the fine line between “Who‘s the hottie?” and “Is that your son?” (See my essay, "Miss Thing is Delighted to Announce.") But when Sean invited me out to a bar recently to meet his friends, I figured, Why not? By the time I got there, he had already had a few drinks, and greeted me warmly.
“You made it!” he called out. He gave me a bear hug and lead me over to one of his friends for introductions. I got a glimpse of the young man’s face before Sean turned me around, pointed at my bottom and announced, “Dude, check out this righteous booty!”
Before I could say anything, Sean was leading me around the bar, backwards, so my still-fine behind could have a meet-and-greet with the rest of his posse. I didn’t get to see what they looked like, and you know what? I didn’t care.
I've written a song for Sean, for my co-workers, and for Dorsal Fanciers everywhere. It’s a bar ditty, of course, to be sung in an Irish accent, in Sean’s honor. Please keep in mind, this song is not about me, but a tribute to Ass-Men everywhere. It's best sung with a cold one in your hand, and begins with a hearty:
“Ohhhhhhhhhh!”
Oh, back her on in
And feast yer eyes, lads,
On the finest caboose in the land!
It rides firm and high,
From her back to her thighs,
In a way altogether most grand!
Oh, the way that it sways
Makes the angels sing praise:
"Hallelujah! We've seen the Divine!"
Raise yer stout and yer beer,
For we're all Ass-men heeeeeeeeeeeeere!
Thank the Lord for the Female Behind!"
G-d bless you, Fanny-fans, one and all! We know you're behind us 100%!
This is a Repeat Treat from 2008. For more essays, go to the Home Page and click on the year you'd like to view.
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