The Bum-Bum Anthology

In the life of every woman, there comes a moment--an ugly moment--when the forces of gravity begin to become apparent. We will skip the various and sundry indignities associated with gently falling triceps and eyelids, because who really cares? Nobody ever has to see your triceps, except at the beach, and there, nobody will be looking at your triceps. They will all be busy sucking in various parts of their own anatomies, and trying to gauge strategic moments to flop in the water, preferably during a shark attack or another time when the attention of the masses is otherwise engaged. And the eyelids are easily remedied with a nice pair of glasses, dark or otherwise, and anyway, the "mature" eyelids as we shall call them tend to confer an air of jaded mystery.

Although I try to never to say never, the eyelidoplasty, or whatever the technical name for it is, is probably one of the very last surgical touch-ups I would ever consider. The "yes I've been around the block, et vous?" look is immediately supplanted by an expression of perennial owl-like surprise, which is not necessarily sexy unless you happen to actually be an owl.

So there are parts of the body that may lie in eternal and dignified repose, like fallen hikers on Everest, without any real need to pick them up. Obviously, one does what one can to stave off each individual ignominious defeat, but there is a time, as Andrea Bocelli seems to think, to say goodbye. Of course, the real Italian title of Bocelli's "Time to Say Goodbye" actually means, "Pass the Parmesan cheese and the wine and make it snappy", but we will overlook that point for the purposes of today's blog.

Other body parts may be propped up quite satisfactorily with some art and artifice. Of course I am talking mostly about women. Men tend to expand, rather than sag, but they always seem to be able to convince themselves what a fine fellow they are despite abundant evidence to the contrary (ciao, Enzo!). If a man begins to take an active interest in his appearance, it usually means that he is falling for the secretary, or that he has been warned by his doctor of imminent and extremely unpleasant consequences if he continues his current lifestyle.

Women begin their battles with gravity early on. A college friend of mine, Mary, had been abundantly blessed, in my opinion, with womanly attributes, but she complained bitterly of "shoddy breasts". Many other People I Know (and I am not admitting anything here) have been known to shun certain intimate positions for fear of being betrayed by certain rebellious bits of flesh. Sharon Stone gave what I consider an excellent tip, years ago, by revealing that she wouldn't think of making whoopee without a bra on. There you have it.

The finest engineers in the world are at work, not on bridges, as has been amply demonstrated by the unfortunate tendency of the latter to fall into rivers, but on bras. Your average Wonderbra contains as many pulleys and hoists as were used to construct the great pyramids of Egypt. So there is no reason whatsoever to ever be seen without a fetching decollete, at any time, and no further worries need to be had on the subject.

What remains, alas, is that part of the body that is not so easily dominated or understood, the butt. No section of the female anatomy inspires such a broad range of opinion as the derriere. And, without getting into a country-by-country breakdown of gluteal esthetics, it is fair to say that women all over the world have a love-hate relationship with their butts. Flat, round, big or small, everyone would like theirs to be slightly different.

Until, that is, the age of 40, where butts universally and definitively tend to go south, like a flock of recalcitrant geese that has no intention of ever coming back. At that point, the much-reviled butts of yesteryear begin to seem like Paradise Lost.

And although it happens to everyone, the amply endowed are the most at risk. It doesn't matter how many thousands of squats and leg lifts you do, your day will come. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, sweet pea. The question is, what to do?

Cybill Shepherd, or possibly Kathleen Turner, said once that as you get older, you can either save your face or your butt, and your butt is behind you. Meaning: put your best face forward! Of course, it is not quite that simple. It is like preserving the facade of a Gothic cathedral and letting the sanctuary run to rack and ruin. Of course, it may seem a bit sacrilegious to compare the butt to a church, but actually, this part of the female anatomy was revered long before anybody thought of worshipping anything else, because that's where life is created.

So, something must be done, but what? This, dear reader, I do not know. My Brazilian friend who, incidentally, has a perfect butt by any standards, declared one day at the gym in sincere sympathy that "a big butt is a big responsibility". And each of us is left, ultimately, to shoulder her responsibilities alone.

So, for the time being, long live lunges and squats and stairs, and harem pants, and A-line skirts, and the eyesight that goes in the crapper with all the rest, because as the Italians say, "When the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't hurt."

And long live the butt, in all its glorious decline, because at least it provides a comfortable place to sit. In Italian, "butt" is synonymous with "luck," and we are indeed lucky to have this extremely accommodating piece of anatomy, because otherwise our pants would be hanging somewhere around mid-thigh all the time like my friend Kate's father, one of the few people in the world to have been born with a concave caboose.

So my friends, put your head between your knees and kiss your ass hello, and say, like the Italians do, "Che culo!"