Celebrity booty isn't just good for looking at. It's also good for a marriage. Or so I thought.
Humor Sex and Relationships

The Time Celebrity Booty Almost Saved My Marriage

Celebrity booty isn't just good for looking at. It's also good for a marriage. Or so I thought.

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I was sitting at home one night, minding my own business…. Yeah. See what I did there? I’m not even one microsecond into my tale and I am already lying.

It’s just that I’m a little embarrassed by the way I spend my evenings.  I shall confess, I was actually minding everyone else’s business – I have a pressing need to know which celebrities are pregnant, or look pregnant, or just had a baby and still look pregnant, or are sponsoring famous diet programs because they retained pregnancy weight. I might be comparing them to my post-baby body (3.5 years ago, but it was twins, damn it!) and feeling a smidgen of glee when famous women have the same problem that I do: stubborn bumps and lumps that refuse to be contained by Spanx, lycra, and shallow breathing.

I’m not interested in the photos of women who never looked pregnant, or are 8 months pregnant but from the back look like they have the most perfect ass ever, or the ones who are showing off a 6 pack 1 week after birth. If I could afford a trainer, a chef, and a nanny, I would look like that, too, right?

That’s what I tell myself.

It would be so easy to work out for hours every day if someone planned my workout for optimum fat burning and constantly pushed me to twist into one more sweaty contortion or perform one more upper cut/roundhouse combo. I would happily gnosh on exotic salads of watercress, pomegranate, and micro greens and sip 64 oz. of cucumber and mint infused water.

Wait. That might be my second lie.

Who exists on that stuff? I would be sneaking in filet mignon, caviar, Godiva, and Crystal at every opportunity. These people are rich! If I were rich, I could eat what I want and get it lipoed out every so often.  Anyway, I digress.

I was shamelessly eating chips and analyzing celebrity shapes when I noticed an article on the Holy Grail of Hollywood bodies – “Top 10 Biggest Celebrity Butts.” My heart gave a happy little skip as I wiped the grease off my fingers to tap on the mother of all icons on my iPad screen.

Squeeeee! Let’s do this!

I tapped my screen in anticipation, and a rapid fire flurry of thoughts tumbled over each other in my head. They went something like this:

I cannot wait to see the comparison between Kim Kardashian and Niki Minaj. You know they will be featured on something like that. Maybe there will even be a side-by-side comparison of both women in leggings and I can stare at the screen in awe and think to myself, “Yep. That’s some ass right there. HA! My ass is nothing like that and I am ok with it. This means I have a body part that, when I compare it to beautiful famous women, I win! I will never have an ass like that and it makes me happy. My body is just fine!”

I reveled in the thought that I could show it to my husband and initiate a conversation about something other than kids, work, or chores. I fantasized about how famous butt cracks might light a spark in our relationship. I had to make that conversation starter stellar, like, “Hey, babe. Ass is filling my screen right now” or “Babe, I got some ass to share over here.” He would raise his eyebrows and stare at my booty wonderland for a full two seconds, then say, ”Yep. That’s some ass right there.” He might even tilt his head to the side and try to get a look at my ass (currently covered with red fleece sprinkled with smiling penguins) before giving me “the look.” Ya know, the I’ll-see-your-ass-later-in-my-bed look. (Hey, it’s my fantasy, don’t judge my realistic edge).

I would need to start the conversation with something a little provocative yet still mysterious because he was engrossed in last year’s season of Survivor. I glanced over at him, eyes glazed, holding a glass of milk and five cookies.

Wow. Maybe Niki Minaj’s ass would pull him out of his fascination with beautiful people willingly subsisting on coconuts and air in order to play a game and win a prize, which frankly, isn’t that great. I mean, a million bucks is good, don’t get me wrong, but a month of living with no house, no food, no clothes, no bathroom (what if they have their period?), no soap, and the constant threat of bug bites in sensitive places is not appealing to me at all.

He would say to me, “Babe. It’s not about that. It’s a social game of wits, cunning, manipulation, and strategy. It’s the best, most fascinating game ever invented. Deprive people, then make them compete against another team in physical challenges AND keep it together enough to lie and manipulate your way to the top! Genius!”

Sigh. It was gonna take a double whammy of ass-licousness to pull him out of this downward spiral.

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I focused on my task. Shouldn’t my screen have been overflowing with black spandex and mouth-dropping curves right then? What was the problem? I only saw my Google calendar, which showed me a half-crafted weekly meal plan and a dentist appointment on Wednesday. I stared at it, confused, and then it hit me.

WTF!!! I closed the tab! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!!!!!

I panicked. This couldn’t be right! Why were those little damn “x” icons so close together? Is my finger so fat that when I aimed for a giant picture of celebrity ass, I activated the ruin-your-entire-evening-never-to-recover button! HELL. This couldn’t be happening.

In a desperate attempt to salvage my ass viewing, I viciously stabbed my browser. Maybe it was still there. Maybe that advertisement would pop up again if I went back to the preggo celebrities. I furiously attempted to find my original article.

WHOOP! There it was! And the next article was……………Cats? Really? It couldn’t say “Top 100 funniest cats” right there. Where were the round backsides that can hold a teacup without spilling and have the potential power to ignite my marriage????? NO NO NO NO.

By this time, I realized there was no turning back, and I WAS PISSED. My heart was speeding, steam was radiating out of my ears, I couldn’t breathe, and my skin was turning an ugly, mottled shade of red. My husband slipped out of his Survivor coma long enough to notice I was in agony.

“What’s wrong, babe?”

I tried to explain the asses-would-save-our-marriage scenario, but I was too incoherent. He narrowed his eyes, pointed to the TV, and said, “What are you talking about? I love your ass. Look at these skinny asses. No meat on them. And they are dirty and probably on their periods.”

Hmm. Maybe Survivor had some redeeming qualities. So I settled in to examine some skinny D-list ass.