Each morning, my office mate and I start the day with coffee hour. It allows us to catch up on what the other did the night before, discuss lunch plans, discuss online shopping and most importantly, discuss random and inappropriate topics and that we don’t discuss with normal people. The other day was good example of this.
“So you can’t grow like that, right? You must get implants.” I asked my office mate and Official Expert of all things African-American. She was bumped up to Expert recently because technically, she’s my only black friend that listens to me on a daily basis and puts up with me.
“What are you talking about?” She asked, sounding mildly interested because I’m sure she assumed the conversation to come would surely be inappropriate, but at least entertaining.
“Your asses. Your asses that grow like shelves. I want to know how they grow like that.“ I was generalizing again, because that is what I do. In fact, that is what most people do and I don’t need to be politically correct during our morning coffee chats.
“Mine isn’t like that. I wasn’t so lucky. But it’s hereditary, Heather. It’s not implants.” She sighed and was probably thinking about all the other questions I’d asked in the past year about tattooed eyebrows and why black kids are born with more rhythm than twenty white kids combined and can she do that ass jiggling thing and can I touch her fake hair and ohmygod, owning multiple hair pieces is normal?
“I don’t believe you. I want to see x-rays. Your asses are like shelves. Like a tetrus piece. You could set a beer on that ass. Seriously. Your bones grow like that? Like your spine bone hits your ass bone and then it grows out and then woooosh.” I was making a motion with my hand that was to display a supple asscheek jutting out of a perfectly normal back. I hoped she recognized my upside-down P hand gesture.
“Who are you talking about?“ she said, turning around to look at me.
It was true. She didn’t have a shelf ass and I wasn’t really talking about her. I was talking about maybe some girls she knows. Girls I didn’t know. I needed more black girlfriends, just as much almost as I need a hot, gay (male) assistant. My whiteness knows no boundaries and its so boring being white. Especially if you’re translucent, part cooked but not really, shrimp white.
Well, honestly, it fucking is.
As she turned, she could see I had Googled “Black girl asses like shelves and apples” because really, that’s a great search and as I had assumed, gave me many images to work with. In a different tab I had Googled, “Black girl hereditary asses growing like shelves” to see if there was some sort of scientific evidence of this hereditary nonsense she was referring to, and I was hoping to run across an x-ray or two.
There are no x-rays comparing the ass bones of a white girl to a black girl, in case you were wondering. You’re welcome for me doing the leg work for you on this one.
“Why are you looking at Apple Bottom Jeans?” She was watching me scroll through a number of ass shots on my screen, most of which I was tracing the booty with my pointer finger, staring at the screen with my mouth open in awe. I wanted a shelf ass. I’d even take an apple ass. It was better than the squishy, pale ass I was given.
“I’m not. I told you. I’m looking at your asses. I just don’t understand because you are not born….wait a minute. Did you just say Apple Bottom Jeans….like,” and then I sang it and obviously added “Boots with the fuuuuuuuur.”
“Yeah, the jeans. Made by Jay-Z and Luda.” She was looking at me like I was special again but I’ll be damned. They rap AND make big booty jeans? Fucking brilliant.
“Time-thefuck-out. You have your own jeans? That’s not just a song? You have your own shelf ass jeans?” My eyes are wide and now I want a weave (mostly just for the holidays) AND a pair of fruit basket jeans.
“You wouldn’t like them,” she carried on, “they’re for girls with tiny waists, big bottoms and skinny legs.” I didn’t need a reminder that I was not Skinny-Fat-Skinny, but more so, Chubby-Robust-Husky. Compact, I like to categorize myself on bad days. I started thinking of a produce that would classify as compact. I came up with no fruit but couldn’t decide whether I was a squash or a zucchini or an eggplant. The thought of being an eggplant, though, horrified me and so I went back to thinking about fruit.
“What fruit is my ass?” I asked her. We had already decided two coffee sessions ago that my entire body was definitely not a banana, not really a pear, was kind of an apple but more like an entire fruit basket. I’m big into comparing things on my body to fruit lately. I’m not sure where that came from but for now I’ll blame it on the three Women’s World magazines that I read recently that my mother had sent me.
“No fruit. Your ass is not a fruit. You have a normal ass, like mine. A normal ass that needs the Special K diet.” Not only would she not let me have a fruit ass, she was going to remind me that my ass needed a diet.
I made a face at her.
Inside, I was sad. My ass has never quite been able to do that shaking thing. You know. The arch your back to make it look like you have an apple ass while you shake around like you’re stuck in a blender? I so wanted to be able to do that as my white girl party trick.
“What are you doing now?” She asked, seemingly surprised by my computer screen.
“I’m emailing my mother to tell her I want some motherfucking fruit basket jeans for Christmas.”
Merry Christmas to me.