I’ve had an epiphany. Anass-piphany, if you will.
During the long hours of a photo shoot I ran recently, I made casual conversation with the makeup artist as she used precision tweezers to delicately dot the model’s lips withSwarovski crystals.
When asked what her most popular makeup looks were, she said her clients all want to feel glamorous like Kim Kardashian. It’s not good enough to roll out of bed and slick on two coats of fiber mascara anymore. Women want the personal glam squad, the blowout-worthy hair and a ring light designed for flawless selfies.
It used to be validation enough for a partner or group of friends to compliment you on looking lovely. Now, with the inescapability of social media, the Internet must also OK your face and body for the day. Talk about exhausting.
Weeks later, I’m still turning over her observation in my mind. I receive emailed press pitches every day, most schillingprepackaged vegan meal plans (a la Beyonc’s) or dyes that will turn your hair the exact shade of “bronde” Blake Lively favors. Agirl can dream.
Like Super Man and his aversion to Kryptonite, my particular weakness is my own derriere. After years of early ’00s Internet teasing about my peach emoji-shaped behind, I’m thrilled that pop culture is suddenly eager to copy my curves, and those of so many other hourglass-shaped women.
So, when a holistic wellness center in Manhattan offered to let me try its $150“radiant derriere” facial — a cosmetic procedure for two cheeks that rarely see the sun — I caved. I wanted to feel like Kim, with a camera-ready bod that’s been tonedto the max. I needed to know how my butt could be softer, firmer and ready for a Baywatch-style swimsuit.
Let me tell you: There’s no nicer feeling than waking up on a Friday and realizing you’re scheduled to have your ass pampered for an hour. I spent my commute toMy Wellness Solutionslooking around the train and wondering if everyone else was also scheduled for ass facials. Probably not, but it makes for an entertainingmental image.
After I was welcomed in by the center’s practitioners and given a paper cup of ginger tea, I was shown to my room. I stripped my bottom half down, changing into the least flattering pair of white paper panties to ever exist. They were the surrender flag of the ingrown hair and buttne-afflicted.
As horrific as they were, the panties provided the only shred of dignity for my otherwise-bare bum. Once the procedure started, the esthetician gently pulled up each cheek to create the gentlest wedgie I’ve ever experienced.