Big butts are a thing these days. A decade ago Jennifer Lopez made that abundantly desirable and recently Nicki Minaj sang to the world that Sir Mix-a-lot was not lying, packing much back, like Kim Kardashian, is attractive.

As someone who has never been wanting on the more classically envied large boob department, having a big ass as well was something I tried to regularly ignore. Ever since I hit an age where I could wear a bra, I have been what is now politely termed as “curvy”. I grew up with multiple body insecurities – from my telephone wire curly hair, to the generous size of my breasts to a bum which poked out and away from a thankfully small waist. In the 90s, while I was being an insecure teenager, no one pointed out that these were desirable features, since straightness and stick figureness was trendy.

Due to my abject disagreement with my natural curves at that time, I worked out two hours a day at a local gym, became an aerobics instructor and developed, for lack of a better way to describe it, “gentler curvature”. At some point I started to accept that I was never going to be skinny. My cheeks glowed pink, my breasts finally fitted into a bra I could buy off the rack at a regular lingerie store (as opposed to seeking out shops on the annual holiday in Europe, hidden gems in the cobbled backstreets of expensive commercial areas, with deep plush carpets, hushed service and ornate gilded mirrors in dressing space separated only by thick damask curtains – these had parachute sized underwear) and wearing jeans didn’t require jumping up and down three times, lying down once, all so the zipper would painfully inch its way up. But it didn’t last. How could it have since it never made me content?

A restless spirit, I studied and worked in many parts of the world, seeking mind-expanding adventure. It also proved fatally body expanding as disciplined exercise and healthy eating gave way to curiosity about local cuisine, the frequent foray into recreational drink and drug and the deluded thought that walking the streets of London, New York or even Jersey’s little capital St. Helier, was more than enough exercise for my very stubborn body fat. While all along, underneath those heaving boobs, my heart silently craved acceptance, just as I was – slim or fat.

I welcomed the noughties attitudes to body image – several celebrities finally seemed to endorse large body parts (not bodies though) and the trend of accepting juiciness was finally going up. Hell, Spanish fashion shows even showcased designer clothing on girls slightly heavier than the regular clotheshorses. I was now in my 30s, still struggling with wobbliness here and knobbliness there. It didn’t help that the husband I had at the time was an exercise freak and had fallen in love with the idea of a slimmer me. I had a baby and got heavier than he ever expected, unable to shed the excess weight completely. A part of him never got over it, feeling somehow betrayed at his fantasy gone awry.

It’s been heartening to see Tyra Banks being inclusive of assorted shaped women in her competitive show, even if it is for better viewership and ratings. It’s great to read articles on Facebook of curvy models making it into mainstream fashion showcases. Reading blogs by women who finally have made peace with themselves by embracing rather than just accepting their bodies, is no longer a trend, but is here to stay. Progress toward this is slow, but positively steady and gives me hope for a future where we don’t base our image constructs on what media tells us, whose “anaconda” wants what, insecure boyfriends and husbands and even parents who send the message to their child that their (and/or a future partner’s) love is directly proportional to the weight on a scale or the size of their undies.

The terms “plus-sized” and “larger” frustrate me. Larger compared to whom? Plus-er in size in relation to what exactly? Can’t we just have sizes and leave it at that? And what about the “skinny bitches” ? Do we need to label everyone? Isn’t it the same for women who are very thin? An eating disorder, a deep identity crises when looking at your reflection –is that just the right of an over-weight person? Our world is flooded with young people who are bulimic and anemic, young people who are starving themselves to reach a target weight regardless of their shape, height, or genetic make up.

Funny woman Mindy Kaling came on a talk show once and spoke about all those who disparaged her size. She seemed unfazed as she explained that it’s who she is – she eats well, she exercises and her body doesn’t change as a result of it. She’s healthy and happy. Shouldn’t we all aim for that? A healthy happiness (or a happy healthiness). While the song is pretty catchy, and she’s all about the bass, no treble, did Meghan Trainor’s mother tell her to be happy about her size because really it was men who after all liked to hold a little more at night? Couldn’t she have told her to just be happy for herself, possessing a wonderful booty, and that excellent voice, for all that she encompassed in her juicy glory? Did she still need validation from a man?

I just turned 40 a few weeks ago. It’s taken a long time to recognize that I don’t need to skip meals, or starve myself to be a better me. I don’t need to work out like a fiend, I don’t need to fit into clothes I wore several years ago, on the off chance I’ll be ten kilos lighter. I was who I was back then, even as I am who I am right now, plus or minus the weight. In fact, I am more beautiful now, with my absolute belief I am enough. Confidence is very attractive regardless of the quantity of bass or treble.

Dubai, 30 January 2015

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hello! I’m Peri Desai

I’m Peri, welcome to my space. In it you will find stuff that moves me, maddens me, captures my attention, makes me question its truth. You will read what makes me curious, annoyed, energized, joyful, vulnerable.