You know that line in Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby Got Back,” where he goes, “I like big butts and I cannot lie”? Well, I have a big butt and I cannot lie. I’ve always had a big butt. Ever since I can remember. To be clear, it’s not like I have trouble getting through doorways, but there is some serious junk in my trunk. It has been referred to as a “bubble butt.” There was a time in my life when I lived in California when I was described as having an “LA face and an Oakland booty” (er, if you don’t understand, it’s a California thing). And I’ve certainly had my share of butt-related catcalls, random shoutings out of car windows, and general ongoing butt commentary. It’s kind of like my butt is a spectacle. In any case, those of you who are my sisters in big-butt-ery (we are apple-bottomed, hear us bootyquake) know that the prospect of finding jeans to deal with your posterior is no easy task. The jeans that fit your butt are way too big in the waist, and that’s if you can find jeans that fit over your behind at all. If you have ever teetered, tottered, and then fallen over in a cramped, over-lit dressing room attempting to get a pair of jeans over the bulbous portion of your backside, you feel me.
I am not a big spender when it comes to clothes (I’d rather save, travel, etc.), so I typically buy my jeans at, say, Old Navy, where sizes run big and tall. (Oh, did I mention I’m 6’1″? Yeah, shopping is a blast.) That’s what I’ve been doing for the past few years. More often than not, I avoid replacing my jeans, so I don’t have to get into the whole “Oh my God, how big is my butt now?” exploration mission that jeans shopping can be.
But my most recent pair of jeans were boot cut, and that is like, so over. I wanted a pair of skinny jeans, dammit. Even though I am not “skinny,” per se. And every time I looked at a pair of skinny jeans on some chick with a body like Twiggy, I would imagine that skinny jeans on me would look like this enormous butt area dwindling down into two narrow stems. Not a flattering look, I imagined.
Recently, I lost some weight. I was going to find a pair of skinny jeans, no matter the crisis of confidence that finding a pair may inspire. I figured the Gap was probably my best bet. Like sister-store Old Navy, Gap sizes tend to run bigger, and, equally as importantly for me, taller. First, I went to the online Gap store, because I heard that you could order tall sizes off the site. But, honestly, there was no way in hell that I was going to order a pair of jeans off a website. Not with these dimensions.
So, off I drove to the Gap yesterday. I walked in the store, spotted a saleswoman who didn’t weigh 95 pounds, walked up to her, and said, “I want a pair of skinny jeans, but I have a big butt.” We stood in front of the skinny jeans. “I don’t know if this is going to work,” I said, eying jeans I suspected would turn me into a blue sausage. She eyeballed the choices and extracted a pair of Always Skinny jeans. These are like the “reasonable” version of skinny jeans. Not crazy skinny.
They didn’t have any talls in my size in that style, though. “I guess this won’t work,” I said. Because I was feeling negative and preparing myself to be lying on the floor of the dressing room in a matter of moments, unable to have gotten the skinny jeans past my knees, weeping and despondent. I went to the dressing room, readied for disappointment.
Lo and behold! They fit. It was awesome. They smooshed my butt into a reasonable shape that I tried to describe to my best friend later as “like a rectangle with a W underneath it,” although she just looked at me like I was crazy. The legs are fitted, but they don’t make you look like fresh-made sausage. And the length, although not a tall, was fine — they hit me at the ankle, which should be fine with the high heels I’m going to wear with them. Also? It’s the Gap, so cheap: $59.50 a pop. I bought two pairs — a dark wash and a medium wash.
Suffice to say, it was an awesome day. This may be a lot of words to devote to my butt and denim, but if you are a Big Bottomed Girl, maybe you feel me.
Original by Susannah Breslin
