Monday, June 16, 2008

Junk in the Trunk. When Backhanded Compliments go Awry.

Last week I spent 4 hours in the Emergency Room with the mother of all migraine headaches. I don't remember a lot, aside from a screaming lady somewhere in the background who most certainly was having her legs sawed off.  I do however remember that the nurse - right before she gave me a shot of pain killers and anti-nausea meds - pulled down my Juicy sweat pants exposing my right buttock (I realize, not a pretty sight) and asked me if I had any "implants down there". Headache or no headache, this made me pause and take notice. First of all, considering that my ass is the consistency of Jello Gelatin after a hot day in the sun, the idea that an  implant lurked beneath my lumpy butt flesh was ludicrous to say the least. I know my ass is big. Even as a youngster my parents always lovingly made it a point to tell me that someday boys will love my "junk in the trunk." But Kim Kardashian I am not. Had I felt better I would have thanked the nurse and told her, "No, Nurse
2X4, my ass is naturally the size of a watermelon." Instead I took my shot, pulled up my trousers and fell into a deep heavenly sleep, knowing that as soon as I awoke from my drug induced daze my 'Junk' and I had an appointment with the treadmill.

Today, while working my at daughter's "end-of-the-year fifth grade picnic," as I chaperoned a brutal game of Tug-O-War I met another mom who told me I was the spitting image of one of the Kindergarten teachers, who was in her 20's. Flattered, I started to thank her, mentioning that I was quickly approaching 40, when she went on to say, "You could be the 40 year old version of her - or her older sister." Wait. What? Umm, how about you just quit while you are ahead, lady? And while we're at it, you're no spring chicken yourself. Honestly, I don't think she meant to offend (after all I am almost 40) but no one wants to hear you are an older version of anyone over the age of 12. 

I'm  no stranger to the backhanded compliment. I've had people ask me if I am a runner because my calves are so big. (Thanks a-hole! No running here but I do enjoy a Baby Ruth now and then which might account for calves the size of tree trunks!). I even had a co-worker scream across the office once (when I was bending down and quickly exposed a left hip)  "I didn't know you had stretch marks." Thannkkkkkkkksssssssss.

Because I have the self-image of a flat chested, stuttering teenager who has been locked in her room for 4 years, these barbs always hurt more than they should. Today however I choose to rise above it. First, by doing 4 miles on the treadmill and later by drinking heavily while eating a piece of lettuce.

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