In a feat of daring when I was ten, I cut my buttock on one of those jagged green and transparent glasses placed on fences as a deterent to thieves- the equivalent of the modern barbed wire. This happened while I was scaling the fence into my watching neighbours’ compound and it was amidst their cheers and my siblings’ that I returned home in a bloodied gown with the white fat of my butt exposed. I underwent six stitches and three weeks of painful sitting.
That wasn’t the hardest part of my experience, however. That came when my ten year old self agonized over whether I’d ever get a man to marry me with my now imperfect butt. Yes, even then when I didn’t know the difference between a 38G and a 32A bra cup, I knew that my body mattered. The question, however, is how much should it really matter?
My stitched butt was only the beginning of my agonies over perfection. After that followed self consciousness over my underbite dentition (my lower teeth being in front of the upper, reversing the normal arrangement) which needed braces my parents either didn’t have the finances, or didn’t think was important enough to my self esteem, to provide for me. For years, i couldn't smile, especially at cameras.
Next was my tongue which in an earlier post I admitted to having hurt as a child and which till date sports scars of an injury I cannot now remember. Who would ever kiss me knowing my tongue was scarred, I despaired, thinking the possibility of my ever getting French kissed was about the same as that of a catholic mother Mary ever getting laid.
Other agonies were my wishbone type legs, which I couldn’t bear to expose till I had to wear my short Virgin Nigeria uniform skirt; my flat (ok, not quite so much anymore) butt, even though I have child bearing hips for my slim stature; my skinny arms which I also couldn’t bear to expose to public scrutiny till the advent of the spaghetti strap top, the beginning of university and the need to attract a testosterone driven male or two made it absolutely necessary. Last, I had the gall to worry about my cleavage which had grown from mosquito bites in my first year (of university, in case you are inclined to think earlier) to veritable grapes (large citrus fruits) by my third year.
It is female to always worry about our bodies; when others could kill for our hourglass figure, we bemoan the fact that we are too curvy; when we could rival America’s next top model we lament our stick figure. Men are permitted to flaunt their beer guts and XXL Jay Z sized lips but we females kill ourselves over the smallest imperfections.
Truth is I have since found guys to administer the French kiss on me… eight and counting (A tad too many, maybe. but hey, I have something to prove!). When I stripped before my boyfriend, he was too busy copping a feel of my bum to notice the tiny scar on a cheek.
We’d all like to be perfect but we’ve got to admit that no one can ever be. Ashwarya Rai has the most painfully beautiful face I’ve seen but also the makings of a flat butt. Omotola Jalade is stunning but might always need a padded bra. Ok, so Beyonce is damn near perfect but i bet you couldn’t keep up with the exercise regime from hell she’d have to do to burn off that natural inclination she has to be fat. And Will Smith for all his gorgeousness has ears like a hare's.
So what if when you pull off your bra your breasts make way toward your belly button, your smile makes the sun shine and your skin looks like spun gold; what if those pendulous buttocks of yours are cellulite city, when they shake they cause a quake in guys’ hearts, and have a hypnotic quality.
I read in some interesting magazine that chances are almost absolute that if he’s been busy trying to get you in bed, he’s scarcely going to be bothered by the fact that you have pimples for breasts. His eyes may briefly register shock when he sees the double D’s come away with the bra but he’s hardly going to be yanking up his shorts and making a run for the door.
You are perfect just the way you are. Take time to admire what you’ve got going for you and spare fewer thoughts for those which you cannot change. Do not avoid the mirror (not that I imagine any female can. Me, I can forge a lucrative career from looking in the mirror; in fact life wouldn’t be worth living without it) if you must, get one that very kindly stretches you and converts that horizontal well fed girth of yours to height. Appreciate what’s great about you and you’ll nurture your confidence. As for the less perfect parts of you, forget them! There aren’t any cops out there looking to arrest you for ditching your insecurities. Enjoy being you, and others will enjoy being with you.
