Year Of The Booty: About Time (BTW You’re Late)

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Thanks to the antics of real and wannabe celebs, 2020 was undoubtedly the year of the booty — the big booty to be exact.

All this ruckus about the tucchus is stupendous for us ladies born with some junk in the trunk. We have always known how to work our greatest asset. Welcome to the party, America!

Year of the booty since. . . always. It’s always been nice.
I was born with a naturally ample tush. Always came in handy at the roller skate rink to cushion the falls of a showoff preteen.

Then, after all of my babies were born, I started to workout. All of that exercise greatly reduced my derrière. Then spring of this year I got busy, aka lazy as hell, and decided to grow my butt out.

You know. Sometimes you get sick of short hair and so you go through the awkward stage of growth to get a fuller mane. Yeah well I did the same thing with my bum. I grew it out.

Blew out two pairs of pants in the process — the awkward phase — but I certainly was all about achieving a fuller rump.

But let’s go back to my younger big booty days —

I was ahead, or abottom might be more appropriate, of the times. You see I had my own year of the booty long before 2014.

The year was 1994. My year of the booty.
I was a sophomore in high school. Earlier that school year I had caught a glimpse of a senior red-headed guy who would later — 6 years, 7 months and a few odd days to be exact, or an exaggerator — be called my Husband.

I devised a little plan to catch the attention of my someday beau. That plan involved my backside, a tight fitting pair of Levi jeans, my locker, and some lucky timing.

At the end of each school day, I would wait at my locker a ridiculously long time.

Just as I would catch a glimpse of him coming I would wait for it. . . wait for it. . . It being the precious moment when he would be just close enough to see me ever so gracefully perch up on my tippy-toes to reach up and put my books into my top locker cubbyhole.

And I don’t know, maybe just maybe, sometimes my crop top might shift up ever so slightly exposing my then tight tummy.

And of course one cannot possibly reach up high without ever so (people who are related to me skip to the next paragraph – thank you) sexily arching one’s back and sticking one’s bum out.

After he walked past me, and I did my little performance, I would hurry up to follow him out to wait at the bus stop. Hurrying assured that I would catch a glimpse of one of his best assets, if you know what I mean. And if you don’t, you’re an idiot.

Every. Single. Day. I waited for that boy. I cannot tell you the times I came thisfuckingclose to missing my bus. But I never did.

So there you have it. Year of the booty — that happened way before 2014.

My story of why I was big booty cool before Meghan Trainor’s “All About That Bass,” Nicki Minaj’s “Anaconda,” padded underwear, surgical procedures to enhance bums, or gym classes to pump up your backside.

I’m more old school like Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby’s Got Back.” Because school is exactly where my booty business began.

While there is certainly a cultural obsession with the tush, fear not, society is a fickle beast. Next year big boobs, full lips, the thigh gap or who knows what may be the look. Really? Who gives a crap. Celebrate what you have. Or enhance it however makes YOU happy. I know it sounds like bullshit, but to people who really matter, it’s what’s inside that matters most.

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