Measuring Up: In Praise of Junk in the Trunk

"36-24-36? Yeah, only if she's 5'3"." - Sir Mix-A-Lot, "Baby Got Back"

It goes without saying that as a woman, I'm supposed to be displeased with my body. Whether in some small way - a certain attribute like flabby thighs or crooked nose - or whether with the overall figure, it's the American way for us to hate ourselves just a little (sometimes a lot) for our physical shortcomings.

I've spent most of my life riding that train of thought. I've only ever owned three bikinis, one which I never had the guts to actually wear out on the beach. Neither of the other two would be in my repertoire of items to wear to the beach now. In high school, I mostly dressed like a lumberjack. But then again, it was the era of Grunge. By college, I was slowly easing into wearing clothes that were actually my size instead of a men's large.

These days, I've given up on the perfect body. Achieving ideal proportions and weight require way more work than I want to do - and denial of things I truly enjoy. Like bread. And chocolate. But there's still opportunity for a best case scenario with what I've got. And what I've got is some juice in the caboose. This baby's got back. And I am not ashamed. In fact, when a recent purchase required my measurements in that arena, I was a little bit proud of my bootyliciousness.

And the rest of me too. I am currently a 34-32-40. Remember the 34 is the band size...I'm not posting the cups. I'm not that brave. I have no desire to run, skip and jump my way down to a below-30 waist size. And as for the junk in my trunk? I plan to keep packing. I find my shape sort of glamorous at the moment - old Hollywood, curvaceous, smokin'. The hour has finally arrived for me to like my hourglass. I hope it lasts.