even make me want to die. Then the jeans now considered “mom jeans”—ample through the ass and thigh—came into style and those I could wear, though I still needed a belt to make them fit my waist properly. In 1983, my butt was still too big, but it was no longer an impediment to dressing like everyone else.
And then, at age 21, I went on a mission for the Mormon church and got sent to Taiwan, where I had to wear a skirt and ride a bike every single day, which, as you might know, is excellent lower body exercise.
The wearing-skirts-every-day thing meant I never had to worry about jeans and was one of the best aspects of my 18-month mission, which isn’t saying much, since it was the worst experience of my life. I was so miserable that I forgot to eat or cut my hair, and one day I accidently woke up thin and lovely.
I honestly don’t know what happened, except maybe all that bike riding, but something did happen to me and my body. I was still recognizably me, but different, like I’d finally grown into my features. While I certainly didn’t like my ass, I somehow lost the will to hate it so intensely, partly because my mission taught me to hate my soul. Who cares what you look like when you know God has destined you for hell?
Recovering from that existential crisis took a few years and led to further problems, especially once my libido finally arrived, decidedly on the late side. I was in my mid 20s before I acquired an interest in sex itself, as opposed to, say, love or marriage or companionship or romance, and what to do about sex was an even bigger dilemma than my ass. It had finally occurred to me that rather than focus on how much I hated my butt, I could compensate with other physical traits. Hence my obsession with my hair, which was long and curly and bleached blonde. Hence my liberal use of lipstick and mascara. Hence my penchant for dramatic and eccentric outfits, especially ones that were all black and/or that I’d made myself.
I had to admit that on my good days, I was attractive enough. In any event, men kept asking me out. Unfortunately, when I’d go out with them, they’d usually try to get me to sleep with them. I didn’t want to have sex outside of marriage... but I didn’t want to remain a deeply inexperienced Mormon virgin either. It wouldn’t have been a problem if I could have gotten married, but I’d been dumped by the one Mormon man I fell head over heels in love with (he was gay; we’re still friends), and most Mormon men weren’t interested in me—I asked too many questions and didn’t have enough deference for male authority.