Once someone other than possibly your husband - and even that is questionable - sees your poop, you pretty much have lost the ability to be embarrassed (I accidentally delivered one prior to delivering my daughter. On the pad on my couch. In front of the paramedics.).
Add to that breastfeeding in public, being barfed on, and finding a booger in your hair that your daughter apparently flicked in the night before, and you figure there's nothing left.
But alas. You were wrong.
Today, my physical therapist and the trainer I'm thinking of hiring had a discussion about my ass. Specifically, the complete absence of muscle.
There is nothing like a confirmed case of Flabby Ass.
Now you'd think it would've gotten nice and firm from the amount of time I spend sitting on it.
Or, at the very least, running two marathons in seven months would've encouraged my glutes to, you know, stand up and pay attention.
Apparently, distance runners are the worst offenders when it comes to being a lame ass. Every motion is straight ahead, so your butt doesn't get the work it needs. And my lack of any kind of weight lifting has not helped.
My body is, in fact, too bootylicious for me.
The kid who was taking me through my PT exercises today made sure to remind me to squeeze my butt ("You'll be able to crack nuts with it by Christmas," he promised). But you know, after an hour of it, I had to shout "GET OFF MY ASS!"
I mean, I had been feeling pretty pleased with myself that it had shrunk enough to fit nicely into my jeans.
All smoke and mirrors, my friends. My buns of steel are actually buns of, well, buns. As in, bakery. Hot crossed. Hot dog.
I am no longer in denial. And that's the first step to overcoming a problem right?