A Writing Journey

I complete a quick Google search: “different ways to say butt”.

To my surprise, 39 words appear on the screen. Well, 40 to be exact, but one word is blocked and requires an extra click to reveal its identity because it’s been deemed a vulgar slang word. I appreciate the kid-proofing.

As my idea for today’s slice percolates — while spooning out the espresso grounds for my morning latte, folding the laundry that has been hanging for two days and enjoying those few extra minutes under the shower’s head — I decide that if I am going to commit to writing about “butts” I had better have a few synonyms. Repetition will definitely be the demise of my slice.

I’m happy — grateful even — when this list of words appears on the screen. Who knew? Not only do I get to write about the “butts” in my life, I just instantly expanded my vocabulary. A win-win.

Now, back to the story of the butts. 

The idea took root as I passed my neighbourhood flower shop. This sign.

Of course, it made me stop. I chuckled. I appreciated the pun. But, in an instant, it made me think of my butt.

I have had a complicated relationship with my buttocks. (Okay, slicers, hold on to your seats. This is where the 40 or so iterations come in!)

As a child, I couldn’t help but notice that my shadow’s backside was always a bit bigger and rounder than my little friends’ silhouettes. My mother, who altered many pairs of pants for me, would affectionately comment on my tiny waist and my robust behind. By middle school, when body shape took centre stage in terms of social status, it was my tush that I desperately tried to hide. 

This was a time well before Sir Mix-a-Lot’s infamous “Baby Got Back” rap song that was meant to reclaim the typical female beauty standard from the image of a beanpole model. Where was he when I was 16? 

In time, as I matured into my 20s and 30s, my rear end took a backseat to other priorities — keeping my body healthy and strong with running. Of course, there was always a side comment from a friend or foe that would poke at my insecurity. 

“Nice a–!” from a complete stranger as I ran past, sweat dripping down my brow. 

“Really”, I thought to myself, “Can’t a girl run in peace!”

That comment would have sat with me well beyond the run. It would have festered. A reminder that my posterior complex was still very real.

Until my niece set me straight a few years ago. Emma is part of the Baby-Got-Back generation of young feminists who have reclaimed their bodies and are not afraid to flaunt them. 

Emma inherited a few fabulous traits from our side of the family — and her derriere, well, she has me to thank for that.

“Unky Jo,” she announced one day, pointing to her booty. “You and me need to get these things insured!” (Unky Jo is a term of endearment. When she was little, aunty was too difficult to say, and Jo is my nickname.)

I laughed at her honesty. Her bold, brash attitude. Her bravery, really, in the face of my self-doubt.

She taught me an important lesson that day. I was reminded of it when I saw that sign outside the flower shop. 

Liking ourselves — every single bit (or should I say butt?), big or small, brave or nervous, loud or quiet, joyous or sad — is what life is all about. And so, here goes: (cue the music, please!)

“I like my big butt and I cannot lie!”

Here’s to every bum, caboose, heinie, patootie, keister, tuchis, bazoo, duff, tail, bippy, batty, rusty dusty and arse that has not been celebrated. In the words of Sir Mix-a-Lot: “Tell’em to shake it! Shake it!”

(And if anyone is counting —  22 synonyms of the word butt were used in the making of this slice! Not bad at all!)