Last week, Gabrielle and Jenny wrote an incisive and entertaining article about the struggles of having large breasts. Although I can’t relate to being a lady who constantly has to remind men that my eyes are up here, I do know that Sir. Mix A Lot’s anaconda would want some because I got buns, hun.
Outside of the obvious sexual connotations of having a large booty, every girl with wide hips knows what do with that big fat butt when putting on jeans: wiggle, wiggle, wiggle. Our closets overflow with belts. Sadly, I’ve ripped multiple pairs of pants (upwards of 5) doing regular mundane activities, like doing a deep lunge because an attractive boy talked to me. (Okay, maybe I deserved that one.) Leggings? Even the blackest of those little skin tight joys are see-through. Multiple women in Her Campus pointed to the struggle of having a small waist and a large butt. Normal dresses? They aren’t real. Being a size small on top and a medium or large on bottom means having to choose between looking like I’m wearing a tent or accepting the fact that my butt cheeks will be creeping out of the bottom of my skirt.
My babysitter informed me of my honky tonk badonkadonk for the first time in elementary school by telling me I had a better butt than her even though I was barely 11. However, the problems of having a big ol’ money maker didn’t come into play until I was in high school. Besides the fact that my damn ass never fits comfortably in the tiny desk chairs, no one had seriously catcalled me before; just some men wolf whistling at me walking down the street in Downtown Chandler or yelling vague, non-specific remarks at me. But in high school, it became all about that (b)ass.
The first time a guy “accidentally” grabbed or brushed up against my butt in the hallway, I took it as simply a consequence of going to school with almost 4000 other students, all trying to walk through the crowded hallways at the same time. However, when it then happened upwards of 20 times, in more pointed and obvious ways through the rest of my high school career, I realized it was highly unlikely that the squeeze I felt in the hallway whenever I wore a pair of shorts—and don’t say “just don’t wear shorts,” it’s Arizona—was always just an “accident.”
Even then, I never experienced catcalling and sexual remarks directed at my humps until I stepped onto Kenyon College’s campus. In high school, I did speech and debate and my suit pants did not make my body too bootylicious. Still, as I scurried between buildings at 8 pm and passed by a group of already sloshed frat bros, one of them yelled the immortal cry, “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!” If you’re going to harass me for having a fat caboose, at least do it in a creative way.
After that, the next few weeks at Kenyon passed without incident. No drunk frat bros grabbed my ass, no one cat-called me as I nervously walked home from rehearsal at 9 pm; it was fine. And then Deb Ball happened. Overall, I had a great night: my boyfriend started a small party by playing the drums, I did the best makeup I’ve ever done, and we aggressively sang happy birthday to my friend Becca at midnight. However, only about 10 minutes after arriving at the party, a 50-year-old alum grabbed my butt and then winked at me when I whipped around. Later, I heard two other thirty-something alums talking about “missing that college ass.” When I turned around, they were staring and gesturing towards me.
Other girls with more well-endowed bahooties in Her Campus had similar stories. One of our writers mentioned an occasion where a boy at camp commented on her butt by saying “‘Hey, everyone, look at her—it looks like someone glued two basketballs to her behind!’” She was 7.
Now, I love my body, particularly my butt. In fact, my boyfriend laughs at me because of how frequently I mention I love my butt. And an abundance of young women in the same situation feel similarly to how I do: having a voluptuous booty is great, but we don’t need random men screaming it to us on the street and we definitely don’t need people grabbing it to remind us it’s there. Trust us: we know. It likes to knock things off all butt-level shelves and tables.
Just because fat bottomed girls make the rockin’ world go ‘round doesn’t mean it gives you the right to comment on it.
Image credits: Giphy, Sarah Davidson