I Finally Gave Up the Idea of the Perfect Bubble-Butt
I’ve spent my life surrounded by health and fitness junk. Thank goodness, it saved my mother’s life, in more ways than one. She got her certification to teach yoga at 51, teaches a community class through our church, and really doesn’t look any different to me than in her wedding photos. She’s just got a wicked sweet tan now, and excellently dense bones to show for it, that’s all I can tell.
Various auto-immune diseases and crippling mental illnesses run through both sides of my family, putting me at a bit of a disadvantage. Good physical and metal health habits are my first line of defense, and my parents have always been outstanding sources of inspiration — whether by demonstrating what I should be doing, or what I should never do at any cost. As such, I have always had a love-hate relationship with work outs and sticking to them regularly.
I hate working out with a passion. I’ve never felt pumped or energized or ready to face the world after one, just ready for coffee and a nap. Part of it may be because of occupational hazards. I’m a chef, and spend my days working my feet, whisking, kneading, squatting to lift heavy boxes and hoisting them up over my head. My job is a workout. A five to eight hour workout that also stresses you out, but you get paid for it, so that’s pretty sweet. I’m not exactly looking forward to dedicating another half hour off the clock to more of the same.
Still, the allure of that elusive bubble butt, those expertly sculpted abs, the upper body strength to carry that 50 pound box of lettuce on one shoulder and toss it on the top shelf like it was nothing… It’s always called to me. To be a rough and tumble warrior, but sleek and sexy under the ragged shoes and stained apron.
Especially those buns. I mean, come on. I’d look so good in those…
Funny part about that is, it’s never been to appeal to anyone’s gaze but my own. It’s never been to try and look good for any man. I didn’t grow up feeling that pressure, but I’ve always held myself accountable for my own actions. My pursuit of a sexy body has never been to prove myself to anyone but my own self. Just to see if I can do it. Just so I can admire my own hard work and dedication to something completely optional.
On the other hand, I’ve also always been content in my own skin. I don’t recall ever longing to look like anyone or anything other that what I’ve looked like in any one moment. I like myself, and my body, just as it is. I have always had a quiet concern about my saddlebags, though. It seems to just be where I carry my extra heft, and there’s no helping that; but I also have to be on high alert for diabetes, so extra heft anywhere on my body has always freaked me out slightly. Where did they come from? Should I reevaluate some of my habits? Why won’t they go away?
They never seem to go away, no matter how I’ve focused on leg days. It’s just how my body likes to be, and I’ve had to make my peace with that. Admittedly, that took some time. Learning that the German phrase for saddlebags is huftgolt — literally, “hip gold” — helped a lot. One person’s sack of lard stuck to their legs is another person’s small treasure trove. Now, I’m kind of in love with them.
The only workout I’ve ever genuinely looked forward to is yoga practice. I love that you can dial the heat up or down, go easeful or charge into beast mode, stretch it out or build strength. I love that it is all things to all people, no matter what they’ve come to the mat for. I love the peace that comes with gentle flow, the focus on the breath while moving through a good vinyasa, and the quieting of the mind in meditation. For the first time, I’ve found a workout that suits my needs. It’s the perfect balancing of physical and mental, which I so desperately need.
You don’t get a bubble butt or a six-pack that way, of course, and I looked up the other day to realize that this is perfectly okay. I’m strong and fabulous the way I am. I’ll never look like a model, or a comic book heroine, or an Instagram beauty, and that’s okay by me. I like to admire other people’s hard work and dedication — the results are gorgeous, make no mistake. But I realized the other day, I simply don’t to do what it takes to look that way, and then do all the maintenance required to stay that way. It’s like gardening: too much blood, sweat, and tears for the sake of appearances I really can’t bring myself to be conscious about.
I already am strong. I already am beautiful. I don’t have all the cuts, curves, and angles in the right places to see it right away, but I see it. And really, the only person I want to see that is myself. I’ve never been great at sharing, after all. If others see it, too, good for them. They’re damn right.
And now, to eat a monster sandwich…
