I work out between five and seven days a week. Not because I’m on some quest for a rockin’ body, because I’m pushing fifty over here and I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed, but because what on God’s green earth would I look like if I didn’t? I have lunged from here to Louisiana, plie-squatted myself right into a knee brace, performed more perfect fire-hydrants than the entire cast of Hotel for Dogs will in its combined four-legged lifetime, and still I have zero junk in my trunk. 


Like, my legs just go straight up into my lumbar spine. Fitness instructors are always talking about some mysterious “shelf” back there. Yeah, here’s what would happen if you tried to set something on my shelf:

I have a friend who greets me regularly with “I see you’re still taking your Noassitol.” My husband calls me SpongeBob SquareAss (affectionately, honest). The result of all of this is that I’m helpless to resist any article of clothing I think might, just might, give my nonexistent booty a boost.


Wait for it…

It was a feat of engineering, all pleats and puckers and drapey parts in the right places. It fit like I imagine a custom-made couture gown might; tight without pinching, fitted yet somehow forgiving, with a built-in liner that smoothed and lifted in such a way that it made undergarments unnecessary.


Except you know how sometimes you can be really, tragically wrong about something? Like, you think this time you’re going to love yourself in a pixie cut, or you bet money you don’t have on the “sure winner” and then the underdog comes out on top, or you go to your favorite restaurant and instead of ordering your trusty, always-delicious go-to dish you decide to try something off the special menu and it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten and you want to die


If anything, this dress makes me look like I OD’d on Noassitol–twice–and then tried to console myself by shoving my lower half into a tortilla press. Let’s be honest here: In no way do these pleats suggest any sort of curves. In fact, they remind me of every time in my life when I’ve tried to camouflage a pimple with cover-up only to wind up looking like I just tattooed a neon PIMPLE FINDER MAP onto my face. If this dress was a movie, it would be He’s Just Not That Into You. 

(Before anyone chastises me for body-shaming myself, I’m poking good fun at me here because I do love myself, and because I can take it, and because maybe, just maybe, you’ve bought something you thought would “hide” one of your “flaws” and can relate and this will make you feel better. My flat ass and I hope so!)