Every now and then I silently curse myself for having more fat than I, perhaps theoretically, should. I'm not overweight, but I haven't been a true size 4 since my mom doubled as my stylist. (She claimed that corduroy pants and khaki slacks we THE fashion trend of 2006. I later fired her when I first went to American Apparel.) I don't eat nearly as well as I should and working out is only appealing to me after I've watched the critically acclaimed teen comedy Stick It. But, being the female that I am, I've always felt slightly inferior to women who could pull off A-line dresses and the "Sandy at the end of Grease" look. I couldn't escape the fact that the "rail thin look where clothes just appeared to fall off you" was appealing and intriguing to me. But today something happened that made me feel completely otherwise.
I bike a lot through the city of Chicago because public transportation can eat a dick, and cars are only for people of financial or burglary success. My bike's name is Peggy. She's sassy and self-sufficient and doesn't take shit from buses and cars that tell her to shut up and wait. I have a bright gold helmet that I wear whenever I bike because it's the statement of a lifetime and can be seen from at least 16 miles away. When it comes to biking, I've got swag for years. But the other day, this didn't do much for me.
To make a long story the right length that blog stories should always be, I was biking down the street, trying to merge, when a mini-SUV sideswiped me. My bike turned too sharply, and I hit the ground, separated from Peggy. For a second, I didn't know what happened. I quickly got up with my arms in the air, like a gymnast who's all like "ya I fell off the beam, but I meant to. What's my score?" After realizing nothing was majorly wrong, I took my bike to the side of the road, finished filing a quick police report, and did what any basic betch with not much life trauma would do: waited for my mom to arrive and cried.
We went to the doctor to check it off the list of "things a not-dumbass would probably do after a dumbass minor bicycle/car collision accident." But I was actually worried I had sprained my tailbone. As I sat on the examining table, a table that will forever be too tall for my legs to touch the ground, I legit worried I really had screwed up my back, which wasn't good because I had a fucking musical to do that weekend (#americanidiotchi). The doctor came in and judged me for my chipped nail polish. I was a little "fuck you" about it, pero like whatever. He took out my chart and started clearing off things he thought might be damaged. One by one, everything checked out as bruised but not majorly damaged (like Britney Spears' heart post 2007). So I was fine. And as he was leaving, he told me something I will forever be proud of:
"You know, thank god you have some fat on your back end. Your buttox cushioned your fall. A girl with no fat would've have much more serious damage."
This was great for two reasons:
1. LOL to anyone who legitimately uses "buttox" in a serious context.
2. Who knew having a little extra fat could be a source for good? For the first time, I was happy to say that I was thankful for having a little extra weight on me. If there's ever been a situational example to accept your body for what it is, this is the Rosetta Stone, the rock (not the language learning application). Not only did I accept it, I welcomed it into my exclusive circle of friends, invited it out for pizza on the regular, and told it that it was pretty on a regular basis. My body was the size and shape that it was, and I was never so thankful to not have a flat, boney butt.
My ass literally saved my ass. For the first time I thought: Thank god for my ass fat. My most pretty yet practical body part.