There’s a Crater on My Butt, and It’s Beautiful

Photo source

Several months ago, I saw my rear end in the mirror and shrieked. A quarter-sized dimple marked the top of my posterior, and a small, hard lump anchored the center of the dent.

Mr. Wright did a fair job of not appearing completely disgusted. “Did you hurt yourself, somehow?” he asked. No, I hadn’t hurt myself. This was before roller derby, after all. Today, I end up with all sorts of mysterious body damage.

I tried to ignore the dent, but over the next several weeks it deepened, and grew to the size of a silver dollar. In the middle of a caffeine-fueled medical panic session, I Googled phrases like “dimpled skin” and “skin puckers.” All results pointed to cellulite, an unfortunate substance my body produces in abundance, but even cellulite dimple images looked like porcelain compared to my back end. (A few links turned up for breast cancer, but considering the location of the pucker, I ruled it out.)

By last week, I sported a crater the size of a tangerine. I limped into the walk-in clinic for a roller derby injury—which turned out to be not a metatarsal fracture, but significant soft tissue damage—and asked, “Hey, will you look at my butt, while I’m in here?”

The doctor—a kind, grandfatherly sort—suggested I make an appointment with my primary care physician and show that lucky doctor my booty. “I don’t have a primary care doc,” I whined. “I’m not hurt or sick often enough to need one. Please, just look… It’s been there almost a year, and it’s growing.” I burst into tears before the poor man could ask why I’d been living with a cave carving its way into my rump for almost a year without seeking medical attention.

He reluctantly agreed, and I dropped my drawers. “Well, now… That’s interesting,” he said, in a mediocre attempt to conceal his repulsion. “Have you had any shots in that area?”

“Of course not,” I said. “I hate needles. Unless, of course, you’re asking about the cheap shots my husband takes at my ever-sagging rear end.”

Did I mention Mr. Wright was with me? That man never passes up an opportunity to prove me wrong. “You did have a shot,” he corrected. “Remember when you almost died last year?”

Oh. That.

About a year ago, I was overcome by a 105-degree fever and intense pain in my upper left side. When I finally got in to see a doctor, it turned out to be bacteria pneumonia.

I don’t deal well with needles, but deal worse with phrases like “brain seizure.” When the doctor jammed a needle in my upper buttock to bring the fever down, I couldn’t protest. My fever, in fact, was so high I’d been quite delirious at the time and literally had no recollection of the poke.

The walk-in doc has a theory about my derriere divot. He thinks the shot triggered a reaction which dissolved the fat cells around the injection site, and as the fat dissipated, the crater grew. “So, how do I get it fixed?” I asked.

“The body,” the doctor said, “will typically begin generating new fat cells and filling in the area after a couple years. If it was my butt, I’d leave it alone, rather than opt for cosmetic surgery. But… I can understand how it might be distressing to a woman like you.”

I’m still not sure exactly what he meant by a woman like you, but it truly is distressing. I’m completely self-conscious, choosing loose layers of clothing and avoiding clingy dresses. And undressing in front of Mr. Wright? Forget about it.

These days, I make a point of encouraging women to feel and believe in their own beauty and sexiness, regardless of body type, features or blemishes—but I struggle with feeling beautiful, myself. Through tears, I confessed all this in the little medical room.

“Perhaps,” the doctor offered, “this is a wonderful opportunity to live by the very words you offer to others.”

So, my friends, I have a cavern in my caboose. Don’t expect a full-page image any time soon, but I’m not going to allow a cosmetic blemish hardly anyone sees deprive me of beautiful thoughts about my body. It’s a good body. It has created life, nourished a child, donated bone marrow, and somehow remains visually pleasing to my husband.

I think that’s beautiful. Don’t you?

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Finding My Skate Legs

Photo by Hayley of Hayley's Horror Hut

In case you haven’t heard, Wenatchee is starting a roller derby league. The Gonzo Mama can’t resist becoming a public spectacle, so I’ve signed up with Apple City Roller Derby.

The pre-registration packet said I’d need skates, insurance, and a commitment to learning a new sport. I love learning new things, and Obama’s cronies promised I’ll have health insurance. Riedell makes a vegan skate. (A bit pricey, no? Have I pointed out my PayPal donation button lately?) When I found out I’d be wearing hot pants and fishnet tights, it pretty much sealed the deal.

Nothing highlights cellulite like hot pants.



Did you know the nearest skating rink is in Soap Lake? Well, it is. I’m sure nothing pleased the proprietor more than the prospect of a herd of adult women in leg warmers descending upon the rink every weekend as they endeavored to find their “skate legs.”

Sure, we have some young ones – and by “young,” I mean under mid-thirties – but a large percentage of the girls are, well, like me. Thirtysomethings with kids, spouses or significant others, the occasional gray hair beneath the most recent application of L’Oreal, and some of us can even remember when all hair spray came in aerosol cans.

You know, girls who learned the facts of life by watching The Facts of Life.

Incidentally, I’ve noticed I’m beginning to get wrinkles around and under some of my facial features. I’ve also developed one deep crease between my eyes, which tells me I worry too much, and no wrinkles across my forehead, because nothing really surprises me at this point in my life.

The point of skating on weekends is not to learn the sport of roller derby, but to get us used to being on wheels. Not just wheels, but two-in-the-front and two-in-the-back wheels, because most of us were also alive for the inline skate revolution, but it’s really not the same. A lot of us haven’t been on quads in twenty years.

I assured myself of utter humiliation by taking my teenaged daughters to the first skate night I attended. Nothing makes you look like a stumbling old broad like being flanked by two agile teen girls who may as well have been born with wheels.

Nothing, that is, except a six-year-old dynamo who’s training for the national speed skating championship. This little tyke celebrated each corner by crouching down, grabbing her outside skate, and cornering on one foot. “Hey, that’s pretty cool,” I said. “Can you show me how to do that?”

The wee wheeler looked me up and down. “No... I don’t think so.”

For the rest of the night, she gave me the stare-down every time she turned a corner. I could read her thoughts: You can’t do it, you stumbling old broad!

Suddenly, I understood derby lust. That night, I learned what it really meant to want to send a girl home with rink rash. So what if she was only six? We’ve all gotta start somewhere.


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I Think I’ll Curl Up and Diet

For years, I’ve said weight, much like age, is just a number. “What matters is how I feel,” I’ve said. Do I have enough energy? Can I move around comfortably? Do my clothes fit? As long as I could answer “yes” to those questions, the status quo sufficed.

My bathroom scale – otherwise known as Judge of the John – collected dust under the sink, and I became quite happy with a little distance in our relationship. Judge John hasn’t said anything pleasant to me in years, and our brief conversations begin with him proclaiming something so ridiculous, it’s offensive, and end with me rolling my eyes and vowing never to see him again.

While it’s true that weight is just a number, that number is currently 25 more than when I met Mr. Wright, ten years ago. I’ve added six children to my family in that time, and it’s natural for a woman to pack on a few extra pounds when she welcomes a new child.

Of course, those women actually grow children inside their bodies. Can I claim empathy pounds?

Do I have enough energy? Sure, depending on what you want me to do. I have adequate energy levels to cuddle a child on the sofa while watching a Veggie Tales DVD. Once a day, I can muster enough power to prepare a meal that doesn’t involve a microwave. If anything further is required, the last of my reserves will rally to prepare a pot of coffee.

Can I move around comfortably? In many ways, I’m more comfortable. Ten years ago, I couldn’t sleep on my side or my stomach without my ribs getting in the way. Today, I can sleep in any position, and though I haven’t seen or heard from my ribs in a while, I suspect they’re doing fine, wherever they are. At least, I haven’t received any phone calls asking for bail money.

Do my clothes fit? If “skinny jeans” is really just a figure of fashion speech, my clothes fit. If an A-line dress is meant to be fitted all the way down the line, my clothes fit. As long as I can believe my dresses shrunk, making the hemlines much higher – and ignore Mr. Wright’s supposition that my butt is just lower – my clothes fit. As long as I wear yoga pants and sweatshirts… my clothes fit.

I tried a girdle. I think they’re called “body shapers” now. Indeed, my body took on new shape after I stretched, tugged, yanked, held my breath and jumped up and down while pulling the infernal thing into place. It should be noted that special scientific laws apply to fat and cellulite; namely, they can’t be flattened or smoothed, but they can be redistributed.

The padding from my butt and thighs, squeezed downward, oozed out the legs of the body shaper until the tops of my knees looked like two loaves of bread. My love handles smooshed upward, out the top of the shaper, giving me every appearance of a second set of breasts and the need for another brassiere.

My rear end and mid-section – as promised – were perfectly shaped and smoothed, for what it’s worth.

I’m pretty sure I heard Judge John snickering under the bathroom sink as I pleaded with my last pair of size six jeans this morning. My feelings were so hurt; I almost couldn’t finish my second stack of peanut butter pancakes.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jodigreen/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Growth Forces Sale, Make an Offer!

For sale: 2 cubic feet of cellulite. Expansion forces sacrifice of this sizable collection. I'm willing to entertain all serious offers, but must confess I've become quite attached. Might make good insulation for custom building project or filling for overstuffed chair? Lovely cottage-cheese texture may make acceptable substitute for popcorn ceiling. No phone calls, please - I'm keeping the line open for Jenny Craig.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/toreajade/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Forget Gitmo… I’ve Been Bikini Shopping

So… they’re closing Gitmo. Rumor has it United States government agencies have been engaging in some pretty inhumane tactics at Guantanamo Bay Detention Facility in the hope of extracting information from detainees about alleged terrorist activities. Why does a leading world power like the United States waste resources on questionable physical and psychological tactics, which may or may not elicit confessions from detainees?

Wouldn’t it be cheaper and more effective to force prisoners to try on a never-ending collection of bathing suits that just don’t fit right?

Hmmm? What’s that? You say The Gonzo Mama’s finally showing the strain of mothering seven kids? You say she’s finally severed the last tiny thread of sanity she’s been clinging to?

Take my word for it. Choosing to try on bathing suits is the single most masochistic act a woman can engage in. In fact, the psychological torture is so great, we don’t even bring it up when conversations turn to the topic of human rights. It’s simply too shocking for those who have not experienced it themselves.

Imagine the horror of being repeatedly subjected to intense ridicule and evil laughter from dressing room mirrors as you try on, in exhaustive procession, every style of bathing suit offered in every department store in the known universe. Not terrifying enough? Imagine that all the designers of the world conspired each year to make you look fifteen pounds heavier than your actual weight by using the most unflattering cuts possible. Still not scared? Add another five pounds to your image, courtesy of “ulgy-fying” fluorescent lights in the dressing rooms.

Times are tough, though. Our economy is faltering, and our national deficit is unfathomable. I’m willing to break the code of silence for the greater good. Let’s talk about what is allegedly happening at Gitmo, and let’s talk about how we can accomplish the same thing with Lycra® or Spandex® swim attire.
If my program is successful (and it will be), it could be expanded to simplify interrogation processes for kidnappers, AIG officials… Martha Stewart.

Sleep deprivation. I’ve lost many a night’s sleep worrying and dreading an upcoming shopping excursion for the purpose of finding a bathing suit. Just knowing that I will be trying on suit after suit and succeeding only in accentuating my cellulite and stretch marks is more than enough to cause insomnia. Why make it someone’s job to keep a prisoner awake all night? Why not just hang a dozen bikinis over the door, with an attached note reading, “Tomorrow morning you’ll be giving a fashion show!” The payroll savings alone would be staggering.

Isolation. Prisoners at Gitmo are not allowed to have contact with friends and family. I suspect they are also not allowed to attend pool parties or beach barbecues. Ha! I guarantee, if those same prisoners were wearing an unflattering “tankini,” they’d be happy to stay indoors and answer a few questions.

Food deprivation. Seriously, this is a no-brainer. Most women willingly self-starve prior to bathing suit season. Enough said. Next topic.

Look, I’m not saying that things don’t need to change at Gitmo. I’m just asking if closing it down is really necessary. I mean, Guantanamo Bay sounds really pretty. In fact, I’ve heard it’s a great place for waterboarding.

That’s like surfing, right?

Mommy Makeover

It will never happen, but sometimes I dream of signing up for one of those cosmetic surgery reality shows, and getting THE WORKS. I look way too old for my age… Motherhood years must be like dog years.

Being a mom is tough on the body, for sure. The stretch marks that cover my butt and go down to my knees don’t exactly imply, “bikini model.” No matter how many crunches or bellydance classes I agonize through, I will always have a layer of wrinkled, loose, jiggly skin over my abs, effectively proclaiming that I don’t exercise at all. Ever.

Motherhood and Gravity are great pals, and clever, too! They’ve deduced that they are much more effective in tandem. Once a woman gives birth, things start sagging at an accelerated rate.

A few years ago, I bought a short, flirty sundress. When I pulled it out last summer, I was astonished… “Honey!” I shouted to my husband. “I’ve grown, like, three inches… Look! My dress barely covers my butt now!” Mr. Wright surveyed the hem of the dress, then offered, “I don’t think you’re taller, Babe. Maybe your butt’s just a bit, um… lower.”

Certainly, genetics play a part. My crooked teeth are a gift from some European ancestor; my fine, limp hair comes from my father’s family; the puffy “perma-bags” under my eyes also grace the faces of most women in my family; my long, pointy nose comes from… Alan Alda? I never knew my mom was such a fan.

Perhaps part of the dissatisfaction with my appearance lies in the undeniable realization that I look nothing like my children. True, I did not give birth to six of the seven, but even my own son looks more like my husband’s brother than anyone in my family.

It’s not only vanity that fuels my fantasies of a makeover. (Although, to be honest, what mama doesn’t secretly desire a little “freshening up?”) The more complex truth is that I wish my outside matched my inside; the heart that knows and loves each of my children as if I had borne them all myself.

I know I’m looking in the wrong place. Scrutinizing my reflection in the mirror will never provide evidence that these children are mine, in spite of who gave birth to them. In truth, I need look no further than the kids, themselves. Princess has a compassionate heart and love for animals like me, and The Dude mirrors my reclusive nature. Pockets has my offbeat sense of humor, and Pepper is fiercely headstrong and outspoken, like her stubborn mama. GirlWonder’s developing writing skills make me proud. Dare I hope she, too, chooses to be a writer? Curlytop, like her quirky mother, sees exciting, obscure details in the mundane; and Snugglebug shares my ability to go from serious to giggling in 4.5 seconds.

I am exactly who I need to be, if I only stop looking so closely. For now, I’ll put my makeover fantasies away, along with my mirror, and be satisfied. Wait a minute – are those… crow’s feet?

Reality television, here I come!

A version of this story appears in Volume 1, Issue 3 of Gonzo Parenting. Order your copy today!