I have a confession to make.  Over the last several weeks, there has primarily been one thing on my mind and one thing only…my ass.

That’s right, as the world is seemingly coming to an end with fires, hurricanes and mass shootings, I’ve been thinking about my ass.

You read that right.  My ass.

I’m not proud of this.

First off, I want to stress, I am not turning into a Kardashian.  Okay, well, my butt sort of is, but the rest of me remains pure Tracy.

Secondly, I want to assure you that these rear-ended thoughts are not from a place of vanity or arrogance, but insecurity.  For several months, I have been going to a trainer and working my ass off…only to suddenly realize the exact opposite has happened, and I’ve actually worked my ass on.  (Apparently that’s a thing!)

This may not seem like an ass-tronomical problem to most, but these oblivious people just don’t realize the magnitude of the situation…no pun intended.  I’m not sure of the technical term for what is happening, but basically, I’ve gained a lot of muscle over the last year and it has all settled in my ass.

My ass, people!

And apparently, whatever remained of my common sense has settled there too.

I know this all sounds ridiculous, but there is a reason behind my bottom–heavy madness.  (Was that a double negative?)   Let me see if I can explain it without sounding like a total…well, you know.

My Cinderella Moment

Every year, there is a gala that my coworkers and I attend.  This party is simply spectacular.  The food, the entertainment, the alcohol – so much alcohol – and of course, most important, the cause, makes this event the place to be and be seen.  Although, in recent years, I have not wanted to be seen.  But before I explain, let me go back…again, no pun intended.

At many social occasions in both my industry and my community, the attire can be all over the board.  Yet, this event has proven to be extremely elegant and glamorous – there’s no such thing as being overdressed or over-the-top.  Many men don tuxedos, while most of the female guests wear designer gowns and grasp embellished purses with shiny stilettos.

Me, being the fancy-dress-loving-princess that I am, traditionally can’t wait to get dolled up for this party, and I’ve made somewhat of a sport out of it over the years.  I always look for my dress early, and put equal time into creating an ensemble look, complete with shoes, jewels and a clutch to match.  It’s like a fairy tale for me…only, I’m my own fairy godmother, I can never find a date to the ball, and it’s long before midnight that my feet start to swell, my Spanx begin to cut off my circulation, (and bladder control), and the will power that had been holding up both my hair and my boobs for a majority of the night, begins to falter.

I’m not entirely sure why there is such an emphasis on appearance at this event, but I think it has a lot to do with “keeping up with the Joneses”.  (Thankfully, there are no Kardashians to keep up with in our county.)

This gala encompasses both wealth and stature, and I don’t want to let on that this single lady doesn’t possess either, and, more than likely purchased her dress on eBay, got her shoes at DSW, and did her own flaw-filled makeup.  (Of course, publishing this fact in my blog is probably not helping with keeping my secret identity under wraps.)

Bottoms Up

In addition to being somewhat of a fraud, when I turned forty – did you know I was forty? – I started to lose my “everyday self” as well.  Depression, anxiety, weight gain, insecurity – you name it, I was suffering from it.

Readers Note:  Please refer to ALL my past blog posts to get to the bottom of why I struggled so much when I turned forty.  And yes, PUN INTENDED!

Flashforward to present day:  I’m 43, back to my (pre-forty) self, and feeling quite content with my life…wow, did I really just say that?

As both my disposition and my body were returning to normal, I began the search for my gala dress in the early summer.  Lately, my taste in fashion has drifted to that of the “age appropriate” – feminine, sophisticated and, must cover everything.  As I searched the web for something that fit the criteria, I found a dress that was pretty much the exact opposite at Bloomingdales.  This dress had everything but the kitchen sink – lace, sparkle, a keyhole back, facet, (just seeing who’s really reading), and was a tad see-through.  It was also long, black and…$368!  (Wah-wah.)  Too rich for this princess’s blood.

On a whim, I went on eBay and searched for the dress, and found it, brand new, for only $90!  This dress was not my usual style, and not very age appropriate, but, (there’s that word again), I bought it anyway.  I had a new attitude and a new body, and I wanted to see if my hard work had paid off.  Besides, I figured after seeing myself in it, (assuming I could even get in it), I could then ship it right back to where it came from.

But, (and this is a not so big butt), when the dress came, it not only fit, it actually looked good.  No, it looked sexy.  And I felt absolutely amazing in it – I was Cinderella!  Good work, Tracy Godmother.  The only problem was, it was designed for a 10-foot-tall woman, and me being a mere 5-foot-2, I was going to need to have the dress altered.

And here’s where the big butt comes in…

The seamstress had my dress for over two months, not returning it to me until the week of the event, and by this time, I had realized…this baby’s got back!  And a lot of it.  The dress didn’t hide a thing! Being that it was extremely form-fitting, it really showed off my now curvy figure, which began and ended with, you guessed it, my ass.

I think the reason why this heavy situation got to me wasn’t necessarily because of the size of my reformed bottom, but because, in this dress, I was putting myself out there to be seen, something I hadn’t done or wanted to do for a very long time.  The gala was going to be my “coming out” party of sorts, meaning I was reemerging as my “true self”, (as opposed to coming out of the closet…not that there’s anything wrong with that!)  I wasn’t so sure I was ready to do this.  I had become used to blending into the background and hiding.  It was safe there.  No one could see my imperfections.  No one could see me.

At the same time, I felt guilty.  Here I was, in a good place, promoting the perks of being “forty and fabulous”, and all I wanted to do was disappear because I was intimidated…by my own body, no less!  (What the???  Is that a thing too?)

I was a hypocrite.  I was preaching one thing and practicing another.  And quite frankly, that’s not a good look…way worse than a big-assed age appropriate princess in a tight black dress.

The Comeback

I wish I could tell you that there is a way to reduce the size of your butt in a week.  Sadly, short of liposuction, there is not.  Therefore, there was only one thing I could do the night of the gala…I sucked it up, (by putting on body-shaping big girl panties), got over myself, (I know, it was about time!), and accepted the fact that this is how I look, and agreed to love myself and my body for what it is…

The good, the bad, and the booty-ful.

In the end, I realized I had been acting silly, and was also a bit paranoid.  I looked good in the dress, and came to appreciate how well I filled it out – I had worked hard for that butt!  And at the event, I stood tall in a sea of the rich and well-off, and quietly announced to the world that I was back.  No more fading into the background for me…which is actually quite difficult to do considering the size of my ass. 😉

I want to dedicate this blog to my fellow princesses who suffer from the same body dysmorphia that I do, and I want you to know, you are beautiful just as you are, and the sooner you come to realize this, the sooner you will find happiness, and some well-deserved peace of mind.

And I also want to dedicate this blog to my butt…because it is remarkable.

The moral of this booty-ful Forty Tale is, despite having a little extra junk in the trunk, this age appropriate princess is going to continue her journey of living life hopefully and confidently – I’m getting there – ever after.