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In earlier incarnations I've spent days and entire weeks comparing my butt to everyone else's butt. I did not expect things to be any different this time, because gravity is having its say, and the dimples are deepening and conquering new territories.
Sometimes my butt was better-than, although it is definitely the butt of a mother who keeps forgetting to work out. Also it happened to be Easter week, which meant there would be lots of teenage girls, only a few of whom, statistically, could be expected to have droopy butts and major dimpling issues.
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Then I decided to head back up to my room for a little nap before dinner, and ended up waiting for one of the vans that give people rides up the steep hillside. And then out of nowhere -- no, no, like dogs from hell -- four teenage girls showed up.Someone less secure about her own beauty might have said, "Too many teenage girls." But I was able to look down my nose at them because I was reading a magazine containing a big article on Junkie Chic, on society's current exhortation of drowsy, skaggy emaciation.Now granted, the girls on the plane were mostly youthful and bouncy and physically stunning, if you happen to find tan, lean youth attractive.The only real fly in the ointment is that it no longer fits. But there in my room overlooking the turquoise sea, infinite palm trees, a sky like God's own gaze, I remembered that there is beauty in having thrown off the burden of one's family. I decided to treat them as if they were beloved elderly aunties, who did embarrassing things like roll their stockings into tubes around their ankles at the beach, but who I was proud of because they were so great in every important way. It did not trouble me that parts of my body -- the auntie parts -- kept moving even after I had come to a full halt. These girls had legs like baby egrets, probably not so changed yet from when they were 7 and 8.There is beauty in having gotten so comfortable at being skilled at something; there is grace in comfortableness. We walked along, the aunties and me, to meet Sam and our friends on the beach. They were still of an age when they could play without wearing the glasses of puberty that allow them to see all their flaws.
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And most importantly, I had discovered I was clinically and objectively beautiful. I was afraid they would see the spidery veins on my legs, and that my bottom appears to be making a break for freedom from the confines of the rear end of my swimsuit; afraid that they would notice all the parts of me that really need to have the fat vacuumed out, or at least carpet-swept. On that plane with all these beautiful young girls walking up the aisle as if it were a runway, if someone had exhibited so much as an angstrom of doubt about my beauty, I would have said that they could come kiss my big, beautiful, dimply, droopy butt.