I’d feel so much better if I could just see everyone’s cellulite. One of reasons I disdain the dreaded moon’s surface so much is that it’s typically hidden by our daily attire. And hidden things often feel like shameful things. This does not help the situation. I vote that in the next Universe, cellulite would find a more public home. Like wrists. Or earlobes! Earlobes would be a great place for cellulite! So appropriate. Just hanging out for everyone to see. All normal and acceptable.
It would make it easier to believe that 90% of women have cellulite if we could just SEE IT. I mean, just show me your cellulite! I want to feel normal. We all do! Part of the reason there is so much cultural anxiety around cellulite (and I know there is because why on earth would anyone wear Spanx if it weren’t for cellulite?) is because we can hide it from each other. Secretly keeping it to ourselves and making each other feel like we’re alone in the cellulite world.
And while I am not stoked when it makes an appearance, I also am not going to go to great lengths to hide it away. For example: if it shows up in a photo, I will not delete the photo. If you can see it peeking out of my cute shorts, I will not change into Orthodox-long-lady-shorts. If I wear a tight, white, spandex dress (WTF?) I will not tie a sweatshirt around my waste to cover my orange peel ass. And as my daughters poke and ask, “Why does your butt do that?” I will respond confidently, “It’s what most butts do as they get bigger and bigger. Your’s will probably do that when you’re older too.”
I will not pretend to be part of the (elusive) 10%. No, I will be your Cellulite Comrade!
I have it. See exhibits A and B below:
You may not see it unless we’re at the gym or the pool, but it is there. And I bet I hate it just as much as you do yours. But somehow, I hate it less knowing that 90% of you have it hiding under your denim as well.
In fact, I wrote it a letter a few years back. Just to get a few things off my mind. But, I never got a response. Typical.
You’ve been on my mind a lot lately. And there are a few grievances that I would like to get off my chest…
First, how dare you? Can’t you tell that I take careful precautions to avoid you? Do you have any regard for the fact that you’re not wanted? I don’t know one person who is glad to have you hanging around, you Oblivious Creep.
I don’t appreciate your constant photobombs either. They’re inappropriate and unwanted. Mind your own business, Nutcase.
It seems that I can’t sit down without you peering out of the hemline of my shorts. Every. Damn. Time. Knock it off!
How would you like it if I made the back of your thighs look like a crisscut french fry? Yeah, that’s what I thought, ya Bozo.
You made my booty looked like the moon’s surface in those otherwise awesome turquoise leggings! Thanks for nothing, Sleezball.
You’re cramping my style. Take a hike, Schmuck!
Get off my ass. Literally. Back off!
Why are you here? Do you run in my genes, is it an estrogen thing, does it have to do with the whole three layers of fat garbage? Regardless, thanks for nothing.
Lastly, I feel like I aught to be ashamed of you. You make me feel less than. At times, you stand in the way of my confidence and enjoyment.
Well, screw you! You’re not going to stop me, Jackass! I have tried to get rid of you since my teenage years, yet you linger. Maybe it’s time I accept you and move on. You’re like my annoying tendency to get motion sick at the smallest movement, or the marks on my hips that remind me of chubbier days, or the short postpartum hairs that curl up around my ears giving me a faint resemblance to some nymph in Lord of The Rings.
Maybe it just is what it is. Maybe you’re not that big of a deal. Maybe nobody cares but me.
Cellulite, I don’t know that I’ll ever get any closer to acceptance. But, in the meantime, it sure feels good to slap you around. Until next time, Slimeball.