I hope some of you caught the hilarious replies to Whitney Reynolds’ tweet, “Describe yourself as a male author would” a few weeks ago. (It’s worth going down the Twitter black hole if you haven’t.) After my daughter told me she didn’t want to get old if it meant having a saggy butt like mine, I realized I was standing on a gold mine of character descriptors. Here are the ones I can remember from recent memory, and they’re all pretty much verbatim.
She had a pretty face, with a nose that sometimes had a gross booger that moved hilariously when she breathed because it was on a nose hair.
She had a squishy belly. Squishy belly! So squishy!
She had nipples!
She had a butt that sagged in a way that made you question whether you ever want to grow up.
She always smelled good. (Except after track practice, and then, she smelled so bad that sorry, you just couldn’t hug her.)
She had one dress that made it look like she had a baby in her belly. Come to think of it, she never wore that dress again.
She had a big booty that made you want to sing, “Big booty! Big, big booty!” until her face turned bright red in the cereal aisle.
She had hair down there. Ew.
She had big thighs, really big. She said they helped her run fast, but Marie’s thighs aren’t big, and Marie runs much, much faster.
She had big feet for a girl.
She was the best mom in the whole world and gave the best hugs (except when she was smelly).