My ass is fatter than yours…


Women are amazing creatures- life baring, life-sustaining, complicated, mysterious, beautiful inside and out, tough as nails, strong as oxen, emotional, hormonal time bombs that can either explode with love or shower you with a furry comparable to the wrath of God.

To love us is a privilege of men, to appreciate us is often forgotten by men and to have one of us in your life is an honor for a man. This applies, most especially, to the women I am privileged to have as friends and family. Most of these women are mothers, but a few are not, some are even grandmothers. These women are strong, independent, intelligent individuals who wouldn’t bat an eye at the thought of having to survive without a man. They are financially sound, self-confident and need no one to support them. But at the same time, they love their spouses or look forward to having a spouse one day.

The women I know and love, possess these wonderful traits and more. But out of all these remarkable qualities, the one that I often appreciate the most is our competitive humor. You see, we women are also damn funny. Really damn funny.

For example conversations with women, such as the ones aforementioned, may start off work related, spouse related, or child related but somehow usually turn into actual debates on who’s got more asses, a fatter ass, more muffin on top, back fat, fatter thighs, whose toes are in most desperate need of a pedicure, who has better hair-

“No, your hair’s gorgeous.”
“Are you kidding, mines stupid! You have beautiful hair.”
“Well your legs are skinnier.” “Yeah, all the way up to my three asses.”
“Please, have you seen all my asses? I needed a damn truck to haul them in behind me.”
“Yeah well the baker dropped of some more muffins for my muffin top today.”
“Mmmkay. Did you feel the breeze when I lifted up my arm and waved at you? Yeah, that’s called flabby arm skin sister. It’s gross.”
“Whatever. I’m getting French fries.”
“Me too, with a cup of chili and a schlep of cheese. I don’t care how many asses I have.”
“I don’t either.”

-Dissolving into a complete comedic routine that is hardly noticed by these very amazing women.
We kill ourselves to workout, be a better wife, a better mother, a better friend, a better co-worker. We’re up at five in the morning and in bed at one in the morning, struggling throughout our day to keep our eyes open. Counting calories burned and calories taken in. Secretly stuffing four, fruit-filled pastries in our mouths when no ones in the lunchroom. Or scarfing down three Oreo cookies before the kids come around the corner and see us. Another glass of wine? Maybe three, what the hell! I’ll drink thirty-six, eight ounce glasses of water and run an extra mile tomorrow. Always feeling guilty and bargaining with ourselves.

Where do we find the time to be so exhaustively critical? And WHY? Why do we do this?

Well here’s my theory-

What the hell else would we have to talk about? If I’m not comparing how many asses I have with you or sharing in my guilty pleasures of donut stuffing and cheeseburger scarfing, discussing whose period is worse and exchanging locations of unsightly body hair, who would I have to talk to? My husband? Please! First of all, men are simply not equipped to handle these types of conversations- both mentally and emotionally. And more importantly, it’s not nearly as funny to talk about asses with men- ever. My husband has nasatal (No Ass At All) for God’s sake! And if I hear him compare how outta shape he is to me one more time, I’m going to poison him. He works out for a week and loses twenty-five pounds. No, no, no, no. It just not the same.

So in the spirit of preserving our exhaustively critical humor, I say- Drink up ladies. Inhale that donut and wax your stache. Your bad hair and four asses are going to make for damn funny conversation whence we meet again. Oh. And don’t forget… you’re amazing.

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