Life Lesson #10: Spring is in the Air: Time to Clean out Your Closet and Refill it with Your Future

Prior to this morning, I had my life lesson for this week all thought out, and for the most part, written. It was shaping up to be about how hard it would be, even though I’m close with my parents and get along with my family relatively well, to move back home (conceived from this past weekend when, after being under the same roof for a mere 30 hours, I had a sudden fear that my soul would be sucked out of me if I stayed one minute longer).

But after my walk to the subway this morning, I’ve decided to scratch that and save it for a lack-of-material week. Instead, I feel it is time to take a few moments to discuss a topic of much greater importance and urgency, thanks to the woman walking in front of me on Third Avenue at 8:30 this morning.

And so, I present to you my plea to help bring back Mom Butt.

I don’t think I have to really explain this to anybody, but it would be an injustice to anyone to be part of today’s world and not know what it is. So let me explain:

Mom Butt happens to women (and some men too, I guess, although I never really noticed it on them) after a certain age. The Butt is no longer of its original shape – be it round, shelf-like, or even non-existent. I think what happens is something like this: a woman wakes up one day, rolls over to turn off her blaring alarm clock, turns to lie back down for a moment before starting her day, and suddenly realizes she’s resting on a completely different ass. Its flatter, wider, and apparently begs to be put into high-waisted, slightly tapered pants that fully accentuate its new silhouette.


I theorize the Mom Butt formula arises from being sat on for way too long, from years of being squished and/or squeezed into inappropriate fashion trends, and I guess a little bit of gravity.

Regardless, it happens. And it used to be visible everywhere. It was a fact of life, a natural progression of things. And I’m okay with this (or so I say ‘til it happens to me). Maybe it’s because I kind of look forward to the day I can throw my hands in the air and say ‘Screw you male genitalia of the world! Today, I woke up with Mom Butt! I’m no longer young, my body just isn’t the same, and I’m going to throw on some ill-fitting pants to prove it!’

What I am not okay with is the game of deception and trickery that is creeping up more and more, making Mom Butt and the natural aging process a thing of the past. A complete disregard for the natural order of things is on the rise. And it’s scaring the crap out of me, because it only means that when what should be my Mom Butt time to shine comes around, I will be a rare beast. Who knows what the consequences of letting it happen will be! I imagine public flogging, taunting by small children – that sort of thing. And it’s not just a lack of respect for Mom Butt that is taking over the world. It’s the whole aging process in general that is being ignored, and never have I been as aware of it as the last few days.

Last week, March brought its usual tease of awesome weather that would soon be followed by crap. In particular, Friday was great weather-wise. I definitely got a bit of Spring Fever. I left work as much as I possibly could – several trips for coffee, an unnecessary Duane Reade trip, a way-too-long lunch break. Given the sheer number of people out and about, I knew I wasn’t the only one taking advantage of the sun. I noticed many of the people taking to the streets were dressed as if it were mid-June. Capri pants, inappropriately short skirts, and even flip flops thrived on the pavement. Idiots, I thought.

On one of my many breaks, I ran into a coworker having a cigarette outside our office building. We started chatting.

“I love this weather,” I said. “I keep running out of our office like I have something to do just to get outside.”

“Seriously, me too! This is like the fifth cigarette I’ve had today already,” she agreed.

Boring time-filling banter ensued.

“Ew. Look at that lady,” she suddenly said under her breath.

I looked in the general direction she was gazing. I immediately knew whom she was talking about.

At first glance, the woman looked young and attractive. She was tall and thin, with a head of blond hair that literarily bounced when she walked (yea, my hair is pretty much always pulled back from nine to five because I’m lazy, so I notice these things). Then I observed the details. She was wearing a short denim skirt with a blousy shirt, a fitted dark blazer over it. A giant white tote matched her ginormous white sunglasses. But as she walked right passed us, her sunglasses couldn’t hide the leathery skin behind them. Sure, she looked wrinkle free at first, but her neck was close to that of a Chinese wrinkle dog. And her hands were a dead giveaway. Veiny and blotched, these were hands of an older woman. Her legs, gloriously long and super tan, were a mere illusion. As they strutted by on ridiculously high sandals, I saw how, upon closer inspection, as ‘fit’ as they might be, they were the legs of an older woman. The skin hung just a little too loose over muscles that were probably worked on for hours at the gym.

“Good lord, she’s so not young!” I responded.

“I know! I hate women like that! Everyone thinks they’re so young and hot, but they’re just gross!” she retorted.

And it’s true. While she might have looked great from afar, and sure, she was turning heads from any penis in a ten-foot radius, it was totally fake. And anyone who took the time to more closely inspect her figured that out.

The image of that woman did not leave me after she did, probably because over the course of the weekend I noticed more and more of her evil twins strutting around both Manhattan and Westchester.

Saturday morning: An impossibly thin woman, bleached blond hair pulled tightly back to accentuate flawless skin, touting three children to Starbucks, where she ordered something skim, fat free, blah blah blah, and a cookie for her kids to split. Her jeans hung loose and her shirt looked three times too big. Did she fear gaining a pound simply smelling the cookie she offered to her children? The giant engagement ring on her finger seemed to barely stay on. I’m guessing her bony knuckle is the only thing stopping it from plummeting to the ground. I wondered if she thought her husband might kick her to the curb if she didn’t remain rail thin, regardless of producing three obnoxious offspring bearing his name.

Later that morning: Crazy Bea (as in Arthur), as I’ve decided to dub her, walking in front of me. Big pouf of silvery-white hair perched atop her tall, thin frame that was covered in one of those beige pants-matching-button-down-shirt ensembles, with those white sneaker-shoes only the elderly wear, soles so thick a chainsaw won’t go through them. She was probably in her mid-seventies, walking her tiny rat of a dog (I’m guessing also in its mid-seventies), on my block. She was moving so slowly it would take her a solid twenty minutes to get to the corner of the street. God help her crossing it. As I made my way around her I turned to politely smile. I was shocked to see her nose covered in bandages and her eyes black and blue. White gauze wrapped around the front of her face. Seriously?! A nose job and face lift?! Give it up lady – you’re old, we all know it, just let it be!

Dinner in Westchester: I took my little brother out to a Mexican place we love to go to. There’s always madness: an out-of-place train circles the ceiling, a bunch of waiters and busboys who bash into each other at least once while we’re there, and the best mariachi band you could imagine (dudes in tight-ass white pants, with matching polished shoes, and the only portable harp I’ve ever seen). We walk in, expecting to be greeted by the usual host, but are taken aback by his replacement. The new hostess looks as if she finished up her turn at the stripper pole about fifteen years ago. Her fake boobs are ridiculous, as is her fake nose and what I think might have been that crazy tattooed eye liner Tammy Fay Baker loves so much. She definitely sported some fake eye lashes to match. Her outfit was ridiculous. Her hair was ridiculous. Everything: ridiculous.

Sunday, still in Westchester: I went to the gym, which before you comment on being the worst thing I could do given this week’s lesson, please note it was the only way to avoid going to church with the parents. Say what you will, I can’t stand it. And so I got up before them only to sneak out and hit up the new NYSC that just opened. Getting on line for a spinning class, I was surrounded by hot moms and grandmas with cut arms and toned stomachs. But I was grossed out. The younger ones looked tired and stressed, their skin off-color and hair too thin, probably because they all gave up eating for the New Year or something. And fit grandmas, well, they just scare me regardless. I hate seeing an old woman that looks like she could kick my ass. It goes against all things right with this world. Grandmas should be knitting booties and making baked goods, not lifting ten pound dumbbells and cranking up the resistance on their bikes to the highest possible incline.

And finally, this morning, back in Manhattan: Another aging woman, refusing to do so gracefully. Her thin ankles teetered on thinner high heels as she made her way down the street. From afar, she appeared young, fit, and attractive. As I covered distance between us, the truth was revealed. Everything was tucked and folded just so: her hair, her clothes, and her skin. I imagine right under her top layer, rotting and moldy flesh just waiting to be exposed.

I don’t know when this all started happening. Or rather, when I really started to notice it. But now I can’t stop seeing women who refuse to let the aging process happen. While I’m all for keeping yourself fit and healthy, I’m not for attempting to live out my life filled with botox and daily personal training sessions.

Ladies, we’ve just got to let things be as they are.

Life Lesson # 10: It is imperative that our generation be the generation that brings back Mom Butt. We cannot waste our midlives in fancy gyms, detoxifying retreat centers and cosmetic surgery tables. Screw that! We waste enough time now dragging our hung-over asses to the gym on a Sunday afternoon so we don’t blow up over an alcohol and bagel induced weekend.

Do you really want to be worrying about how you look the rest of your life? I certainly do not. But if we keep feeding into the idea that we all need to be hot moms and/or those women you see out at bars that your guy friends go to hit on until they get up close and see the wrinkles around the neck, well, then its no one’s fault but our own.

So run out right now, buy yourself a pair of those pants you’d be caught dead in right now, gently place them in a bag marked ‘My Mom Butt Jeans: To be worn on/around 2025’ and place them on the top shelf of your closet. It will be the smartest purchase you have ever made. Trust me.

VIVA LA MOM BUTT!