“Yeah yeah yeah, your butt looks great” I mutter without amusement scrolling through my carefully curated Instagram feed. One taut young body after another as if the mindless absorption of the lithe nakedness of athletic women will somehow seep it’s way into my subconscious mind and will manifest itself in boundless motivation.
Truthfully, it takes much more conscious effort to light me up. The model-esque muse is only a tiny piece of the orchestra that must all be sounding in harmony.
Some days it works in opposition, and instead of appreciating what kind of hard work goes into looking like that, I become grinch-like and wallow in the differences between me and the girl with the six pack abs. Not only the physical ones but the idea that a girl like that clearly has a different kind of mental fortitude. Me: I must be weak. She must be a happier girl. Happier people believe in themselves; happier people accomplish goals.
I wonder if my butt looked like that would I paste it all over the internet? Yes, I totally would. Despite my inner feminist telling me to grow out my pubic hair and telling me that it’s degrading to post one’s mostly naked butt online, I would surely post that shit like I was Kim Kardashian.