I got a cortisone injection in my hip—one day they’ll have to put me down like an old racehorse. For the doctor to reach my hip, I had to pull my pants down. Which I did, very demurely. Only for the doctor to come in and decided that my pants had to go even farther down. Fine, fine. But as he moved the ultrasound wand over my hip, I suddenly realized that my butt crack was exposed. And I felt incredibly, incredibly sorry about my butt crack.
The doctor (hopefully) did not notice my butt crack. And if he did, well, it’s probably not the first butt crack he’s seen. It’s silly to feel sorry about my butt crack display, especially since the doctor was sticking a giant needle into my hip. You could argue that he deserved to see my crack. You could maybe also argue that his butt crack probably wasn’t all that great either. But I still felt terrible for him.
The last time I saw my butt was 11 years ago, inadvertently, in a dressing room mirror. It looked like the surface of the moon, all pockmark-like, if the moon was made of pale pink flesh. There is a reason I haven’t seen my butt for 11 years. What goes on behind me is none of my business, which is why Nick has to remind me to brush my hair.
I felt bad for everyone involved in my colonoscopy. Particularly when they had my crunch up in a very compromising position just before giving me the fun medicine. I had a minute to feel sorry and worry about my butt, and then I woke up in the recovery room. I know this doctor and his team literally make their living from butts. Professionals would never discuss my ugly butt. I can only imagine what they’re thinking.
When it comes to my body, there is so much to be sorry about.
“Sorry about my chin hair,” I project to the dental hygienist, as she tilts my head back. “And the boogers.” “Sorry about the double chin,” I think, as she tilts my head the other way.
“Sorry about my leg hair,” I cringe while the pedicurist massages my calves.
“Sorry about my sweaty feet,” as my physical therapist stretches my legs.
“Eeek, get away from my stomach,” as my husband snuggles me in bed.
At the gynecologist, “Sorry about…” well, from that angle, you can take your pick.
The sorry isn’t motivating in the way I might hope. I only berate myself for not doing enough. If I truly felt that bad, I would more than half-heartedly do Weight Watchers. I would do 1,000 squats a day to perk up my buns. I would wear make-up daily, so my face was fit for public consumption.
But I feel sorry instead.
The alternative is to accept my sorry body. I’ve had a lot of years to berate myself. There’s also the beautiful women like all over everywhere, trying to sell me things. And 79-year-old Dolly Parton in a Dallas Cowboy’s cheerleader costume. Comparison is the thief of self-esteem.
The sorrys are loud. And, to quote Vanilla Ice, “will they ever stop? Yo, I don’t know.” With a lot of mental work, and a lot less Facebook, I might be able to achieve, if not body positivity, at least body apathy.
I think I’ll always feel sorry about my butt crack.
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