Fat Bottomed Girls

This is a little article I wrote quite a while ago, about the plight of having a heavy bass line.

Fat Bottomed Girls – Will I ever come to terms with my arse?


Like many of my female friends I have a few standard ‘nothing major’ body complaints (big ears, knobbly knees and a tendency to break out after a few nights on the sauce), and though I’m not ecstatic about these imperfections I know that my better features (pretty eyes, good boobs) help to cancel them out.

Unfortunately as a lot of gals will know, there’s usually a much more highly developed body hang up plighting our otherwise non-neurotic/adequately functioning lives. For me this is, of course, my arse or as my mother quite disturbingly refers to it ‘the junk in my trunk’.


Large bottoms run in the family, my mother has one, my mother’s mother has one, her mother’s mother and father had one, and so on and so forth. This unlucky genetic fact ensures that no amount of squats, clenching or walking across the floor on my bum seems to reduce its size. Worse still, the enormous ‘super body sculpting’ knickers that were supposed to help, give me what is perhaps even more disconcerting than a wide arse; a wide, flat arse.


Early fretting of my behind eventually developed into some curious behaviour - the permanent presence of an outsize sweater around my waist (yes, even in the summer) and on occasion walking backwards out of the office at work. When more recently I spent a night hiding in the local nightclub toilets because the DJ played ‘Baby Got Back’ I realised that these excessive attempts to disguise my extra cushioning were perhaps a little bit extreme and starting to convince those around me that I was indeed, a bit of a freak.


Since that realisation I’ve been on a quest to try to view this bodily curse in a more positive light.

First off I read a bunch of articles about beautiful female celebs and their problem curves, suddenly I was identifying with the likes of Beyonce, J-Lo and Scarlett. That is, until my friends kindly pointed out that these ‘curves’ were a) actually non- existent, b) completely honed and cellulite free, c) insured for unseemly amounts of money and d) kissed up to daily, by an entourage of thirty. My admiration of these women’s acceptance of their bodies was sadly, brief.


I then attempted the positive affirmations suggested to me in a self -help book leant to me by a colleague. This technique required me to spend ten minutes a day looking intensely at my naked buttocks while repeating the mantra “ I am a beautiful being. The universe loves me, and my bottom [or alternative body part]”. The problem with this soon became apparent when I developed an extremely painful crick in my neck from the strain of twisting my head around everyday to catch a glimpse of my bum (very difficult), not to mention the fact that my younger sister walked in on me mid mantra and decided to tell the whole world via ‘myspace’ exactly what I’d been doing. This very embarrassing oversight however, did not put me off my mission to learn to love my bum.


I’ve followed various bits and pieces of advice, but alas, to no avail. I’ve indulged in expensive firming body creams specifically for my behind, I’ve brazenly modelled an array of sexy underwear for my boyfriend in an attempt to pretend I’m comfortable with every part of me, I’ve only just stopped short of tattooing ‘I love my bum’ on each overly round cheek for Gods sake!I’m not sure if anything I do (besides cosmetic surgery I can’t afford) will change the hang up I have about my bottom, and perhaps a little part of me enjoys having a body neurosis I can moan about with my friends, but I know one thing for sure and that is that being truly at ease with an arse that you can rest a pint, a double vodka and a bag of nuts on is far from an easy task.