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by Tania Rochelle |
| MY ASS SAYS "HELLO" from where it all of a sudden hogs the mirror. My ass wants to take me shopping for larger sizes; it begs me to give up jogging, cries, "Enough with the butt-tucks and iceberg lettuce!" Almost forty, and my ass has finally found its voice. "Who else do you know smiles so much?" it asks, flashing its dimples. My ass is smart and philosophical. It likes Russian novels and Kurosawa films (Sometimes it sits through them twice). It has lots of friends: those martyrs, the breast sisters, the grinning pads of flesh that ride my knees. After services at the First Church of St. Isaac Newton, they meet for brunch on Sundays. They eat eggs Benedict and gossip about my tiny wrists. I'd like my ass better if it gave me some privacy. I can't even make love to my husband without it butting in, without its bawdy asides and dirty jokes. Next thing you know, it's got the rest of them cracking up, and that quiver of silent laughter (My ass is such a ham) has me shaking from head to toe, till even the little hammocks of my upper arms are swaying, and the mood is ruined, so my ass, full of itself, heads downstairs for a chicken sandwich, heavy on the mayo. |
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