Got Your Brother’s Back, Have You? Well I Have My Brother’s Butt
Let’s be clear here. It started out fairly innocently. Being the bearer of 54" hips at one point in my illustrious dieting career, tipping the scale (until it fell over) at 205 on my bird-bone frame, I used to stare with angry green envy at my big brother’s tiny, tight butt.
My big brother was climber. In fact, physically he was made to be a crack crab. Long, spindly, immensely strong and very flexible, he was superbly able to twist his body into the kinds of awkward positions which allowed him to cop a hold nearly anywhere on a rock face.
That’s not what made his butt so tiny, though.
Peter hated crowds. Long before Colorado became such an “IT” place to live, and Eldorado Canyon (just south of Boulder) became Grand Central Station for climbers, he hated having anyone else on the rock with him unless it was a very close, trusted friend to belay him.
His answer was to hike untold miles into the back country of the South Platte to find lines that nobody had sent up to that point.
Miles and miles of uphill, in Colorado backcountry, with a pack full of heavy climbing equipment, food and clothing, plus plenty of water.
Ultimately, Peter published some six books on those climbs. He drew them freehand, named them, photographed them and created guides (https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Peter+Hubbel)+. That of course drew many others to his hideouts, forcing him to find even more remote locations.
When you hike thousands of feet of high country, shouldering a heavy pack, and do it regularly, that has a tendency to tighten the tush. Big time.
He informed me one day that if I wanted a butt like his, it might behoove me to put some time in doing something similar.
He was right.
Peter was one of those big brothers who got the eyelashes. Great huge fringes of them, which if I wanted to emulate, it would take a hell of a lot of mascara. And he had the butt I wanted. His butt was as good as Chris Hemsworth’s (he of Thor fame). You could bounce a quarter off my brother’s ass, much like you could Michael Fassbender’s, but then again, that man has “ass” in his name and he has the goods to prove it.
I didn’t. Well, that is, until recently.
About an hour ago I was in the kitchen with the BF, who has a very nice set of cheeks of his own, being a lifelong bodybuilder.
On one of the few occasions that the BF didn’t shoo me out of my own kitchen in that territorial imperative way that he has, this time he grabbed my Under Armour-covered ass and gave it an affectionate (and very territorial) pinch.
Not much there to pinch.
You can bounce a quarter off my ass. My old drill sergeant would be impressed, since that’s how he used to test my sheets in basic.
I hadn’t, in fact, done a butt test on myself for many years. However, I have, in fact, been running, walking and climbing stairs, hours at a time, and have climbed some rather large mountains. With weight. I also dumped some eighty plus pounds which tends to cut down on the fat factor. The rest, well, umpteen miles cycling, running pool laps, and six day a week yoga work. For years and years.
All that has a tendency to sculpt the sitter. Even at 65. Hey, it only took me four decades to get this butt. Just think of what I can do with another thirty years?
My brother is gone now, which pains me, but what pains me more is that a part of me would have loved to have shown off said sculpted sitter to Peter, who teased me unmercifully about my double-wide butt. Dad did, too. Various men in my life have had a great deal to say- no, let’s be clear, criticize- about my cushion.
They say aging well is its own best revenge. The BF, if he’s not careful about his donut intake, is going to find out what Life with Lard feels like. It’s not likely, but as he homes in on fifty he still hasn’t registered that his body is no longer twenty. Once those pounds settle in for the long haul, they are ever harder to haul off. Just ask anyone who has ever beaten the battle of the bulge after 30, or 40 or older. Eating like a linebacker once you’ve quit the game has an unfortunate side effect. I did that to myself, once I quit high school track and kept eating as though I was working 12 hours a day on the farm.
No amount of liposuction, creative sculpting by any plastic surgeon will give you a steel seat, as my big bro was happy to point out to me for years. The only remedy is work. In this case, stairs, a tall mountainside, and patience are a girl’s best friends if she wants a smooth, snug seat.
Now if I could just do the same thing for my face.