Tight Skirt

Saturday is my birthday. The day marks the beginning of my last year in the limber thirties, before the irrevocably looming brokeback forties kick in. Every time I close in on another big milestone birthday, I always think that’s it, that’s when the shit is going to hit the fan, when I need to get my head out of my ass, to have my life figured out, to stop being a daydreamer and a willy-nilly, and perhaps, just perhaps, the elusive, capital-lettered rarities; Maturity and Adulthood, will suddenly take hold of me, and I will be a new woman.

So far, it has never happened.

I tend to celebrate my big birthdays with a preemptive strike, so to speak: by buying a new garment, something festive, something to make me feel less like oh god there goes another novel, and more like this is going down now, let’s do this, I can do this, this is great, even. 

When I turned thirty, I bought a hand-crocheted mini sundress to mark the occasion. It was totally see-through, in all colors of the rainbow, semi-pornographic despite the handicraft angle; it was also expensive, and I thought it was gorgeous, and figured it was the very last time I could ever pull off something so minuscule on my body and get away with it. Whether that actually happened, remains a mystery. But I have photos and I am afraid they tell me no, not really, but nice try. (Of course, the fact that I still have the photos kind of says also that it wasn't too horrible, either.)

This year, on my impending thirty-ninth birthday, it was a Roberto Cavalli skirt, from a second hand shop, ridiculously cheap: I took it home in my tote bag for nineteen euros, while it still had the original 525,- tag attached. A ruffled beauty, it sports large blue and green flowers on a deep brown background, and trying it on at the shop made me feel feminine and extravagant and almost decadent, and I realized I was suddenly struck by an overwhelming desire to immediately start salsaing, an activity I have never shown any particular interest for in the past.

After the enormous success with my Poem for George A. Romero earlier this month, here is another go at it. This short poem is for me, and all you wonderful, beautiful, gorgeous, desirable, juicy women out there.

Hey, girl, how about that skirt! It really hugs your ass,

you don’t mind me saying, do you, I’d never want to seem crass.

No no, it’s fine, really, when my man is home and I walk past

he’s always smiling a ridiculous smile and tells me what a great ass.

It’s not the world’s tightest ass, nor is it the buxomest ass,

but it’s the only one I’ve got, I guess a power-walker’s ass,

a dancer’s ass, sure, if she was a Sunday dancing lass,

and if I wanted it leaner, I’d be eating stuff like sea-bass,

but I’m like “No way, gotta have that pasta-lover’s ass!”

(Cause you know, pasta-eaters always have the most perfect ass.)

When the world gives me beatings, I’m like Taylor-Johnson in Kick-Ass,

and when I am done kicking, I can say “I already kicked that ass!”

Tonight, I’ll put on my skirt, then put on some piano jazz

and give myself a dancing twirl, a shake, and a razzmatazz,

and tell myself: “Girl, you’ve got yourself a real fine ass,

a Cavalli-ass, yes, but also it’s a Levi’s-ass.”

I remember Tom Skerrit saying he always likes a good piece of ass

in Steel Magnolias, I love it, what a group (no rhyme? Lazy-ass!)

of six gorgeous women: you’ve got Olympia’s, and Sally’s ass,

and Shirley’s, Daryl’s, sweet Julia’s, and finally you’ve got Dolly’s ass.

All those lovely ladies, they sure do have tons of class,

tonight, for all of them, as well as myself, I shall raise my glass.

When turning thirty-nine, I guess it’s alright to be a little crass,

if not now, when? Certainly while I've still got the ass.