There was a time my tush was well regarded. Construction workers whistled on the streets in New York when I sashayed by. Never mind that construction workers, who always seemed on break rather than at work, whistled at anything that sashayed. I knew, and others confirmed this notion, that what went on behind me – the bass, as it were – was choice, or as Spencer Tracy said about Katherine Hepburn in the classic flick, Pat and Mike, “cherce.” That was then. This is, as they say annoyingly, now.
They also say, ‘Aging is not for sissies.” I’ll say. To be a sissy is to have no definition, muscular or otherwise. To be a sissy is to be a wuss, I word I really dislike being called, and one I naturally overuse, BTW.
But aging is not what I want to chat about here in these hallowed pages. No. I am deep into depression regarding my formerly respected tokhes.
And what brought on this funk? Did I just get a new mirror that could reflect behind as well as in front? Was I unable to raise myself from the floor after doing sit-ups? No, it was a comment my Crossfit trainer, a darling man, uttered rather abruptly one day. While I was sweating bullets trying to do grabs, lifts, weighted squats, and knee-raises he informed me that I had a dysfunctional butt, especially the left side. Apparently my derriere has amnesia and has forgotten how to charge, enact or converse. Nevermind that I walk, run, sit, ski, squat and ride a bike perfectly well, using said rear-end. Or at least I thought I did. What I’ve been doing instead was over-using my lower back muscles for everything. Uh-oh, bring on the anti-inflammatory meds!
My nice/cross-fit trainer also told me I walked badly. He then showed me how to do it with strength and power but no sex appeal. I screwed up my face, thought about my aforesaid sashaying, and looked askance. No wiggle in my walk? No giggle in my talk? Apparently my days as a big-eyed girl are really over. Humiliation, thy name is an honest Crossfit trainer.
One leg drags, the other is stiff looking, my shoulders are rounded and I lead with my noggin. I practice walking with intention now. Saying to myself – sometimes aloud – ‘Come on, lefty’ while punching myself there. I walk with an invisible string attached to head, my chin tucked down a bit and a fork between my blades, while trying not to push out my breasts (Shut up, that’s another story).
As for my fanny, I’m determined to reconnect my neuromuscular system to the bum thing. I have let it down, and it has gone down as a result. Before it starts sliding along the floor somewhere near my heels I have work to do. So, if you see me walking around town, my cheeks clenched to within an inch of their lives – fear not –I’m not having a digestive moment but seeking to engage lefty. You can yell, ‘Go Lefty’ at me, but please don’t point at the nearest Blue Room.
First published in the Blatant County News, a section of The Weekly Sun, Hailey, Idaho