How I Finally Made Peace With My Big Ass

I have a long-term relationship that has haunted me ever since I was a teenager. It's a love-hate relationship that has cast a long shadow over my dating history and has affected other parts of my life too. I am referring to my formerly ambivalent, often negative relationship with my body.

Since one of my longtime hobbies seems to be torturing myself, I would often compare my body to women who were born with a classic model physique: tall and statuesque, with long slender legs. With a short and stocky natural build, I *always* came up short in my impossible comparison with the classic tall, thin woman. Even though I liked certain things about my body -- my strong arms, for example -- I almost always felt ashamed of my curves, which I thought were too "excessive."  Too much ass and thigh, not enough leg.

My ass, in particular, was a near-constant source of embarrassment to me. It's always been "too much," sticking out and making a spectacle of itself like a well meaning, but mortifying aunt, who can't stop flirting with anyone and everyone, even when she's at church. I was so neurotic about it, I sometimes felt the urge to back out of a room, because I didn't want my ass -- exasperating in its excessive size and emphatically round shape -- to be the last thing people would see as I left the room.

As I got older, I became frustrated that no restrictive diet or amount of exercise could "sculpt" me into the body I thought I wanted, the body I assumed was automatically attractive to all men. I would occasionally hear that men were physically attracted to lots of different female body types, even though popular culture rarely reflects that idea. While intellectually I accepted that idea as fact, deep down emotionally, I never really believed it. I thought that any man would have his own specific body-type preferences, but in the event that a tall, thin model showed up in his life (because, you know, *that* happens all the time), he would automatically choose her, no matter what his "real-life" preference might be.

A few years ago, I had a realization that galloped into my head and finally put to rest my neurotic thoughts about my body (well, *most* of my neurotic thoughts). It was prompted by my lifelong love of horses, an obsession of mine for as long as I can remember. As a typical horse-crazy girl, I read everything I could about horses, drew them all the time, and rode whenever I had the chance. Even though I developed a great love for Thoroughbred race horses in particular, I have many favorite breeds of horse, not just Thoroughbreds. I love Clydesdales, those big draft horses strong enough to pull a plow through rock-hard ground, as well as the Icelandic horse, a small, but sturdy breed that thrives in the harsh climate of Iceland. I would not want the Clydesdale or the Icelandic horse to look more like the tall, statuesque Thoroughbred with skinny legs. I love the way they look just as they are.

And that's when I realized if *I* were a horse, I would be an Icelandic horse. I come from small, sturdy Scandinavian stock, who survived long cold winters, avalanches, wild moose, and bland food. I am not a Thoroughbred, but I am a small, beautiful Icelandic horse. With a big ass. And that's ok.