Ladyfingers: How Sabby gets her booty back

I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just say it: I have recently come to the realization that I lost my booty. I’m not sure how or when; I can only assume at some point in the last few years it happened. I just know now that it’s definitely lost.

You’re probably just itching to find a full body shot of me from 2011 on the internet right now, aren’t you? Spoiler alert: it ain’t big, but there was, in fact, a time when I could truly shake what my momma gave me.

This revelation is much more complicated than just the loss of my actual rump.

You see, much like Stella and her (once lost, but now back) groove, my booty was not just the physical badonk in my trunk. “My booty” was confidence. It had a “down for whatever” attitude, a “don’t take no shit from no one” bad bitch booty. However, like a small child before GPS tracking devices were made available to the average consumer, my booty wandered away from me. Perhaps it didn’t even wander away; maybe my booty ran away from me. I neglected my booty. I lost it little by little and I didn’t notice until it was gone. I found myself so consumed with negativity which I assumed was just “the sign of the times.”

In a sense it is a sign because it certainly feels like everyone is angry at something or another. By the same token, misery is not all encompassing unless it’s given the headspace. Fear and laziness do nothing but keep misery on its course as it beelines to your brain hole. I spent an awful amount of time in the “woe is me” zone and it wasn’t until recently that I realized I had walked my booty-less self right into the “whoa, that’s me?” zone. I was depressed, angry and hurt—bitter as ever. My booty didn’t recognize me anymore and I don’t blame it because I didn’t even recognize me anymore. My booty wasn’t trying to find greener pastures, it was trying to find ME.

The “me” that backed that ass up and never backed down. The “me” that twerked and worked. Shakira’s hips don’t lie and neither does my tush—it is time for my revolution because I refuse to accept, I refuse to settle, I refuse to mourn the loss. No, ma’am. It’s about damn time Sabby got her booty back.

Now, I should preface with admitting that I have not read “How Stella Got Her Groove Back,” nor have I watched the feature film based on the book (it’s on the list, I swear). Therefore, the steps I’ll take to get my booty back will be a hybrid of what I think the book is about and my pure imagination as an award-winning novelist (to be clear, I’m going to imagine that I’m a novelist that has won many awards. You should try it, too. It’s a good time!) The truth is that finding my booty will be a journey, one which should involve very little pretending and a lot more self-realization. It was the pretending that got me here in the first place, acting like it wasn’t all my fault and not addressing my own problematic behaviors.

Holding oneself accountable and giving oneself the opportunity to grow and change is not only possible, but it is fucking powerful. Taking ownership is acknowledging that power within ourselves. Recognizing that power and learning how to properly utilize it gives a person unlimited opportunities for fulfillment and happiness. It is not easy to do the aforementioned self analysis.

You know what’s easy? When you ignore it, place the blame everywhere else, woe the shit out of yourself—it’s somewhat amazing how comfortable gloom can make itself out to be, especially when you have company. It takes a lot to challenge yourself to change and it takes even more to confront all that haunts you.

At this point, while I feel like I’ve lost a lot of myself, I also have newfound space to welcome the change and growth; the experience and knowledge to move forward; and a hunger for success like no hunger I’ve ever felt before. Though it may take some time and hard work, I know my booty will be back and better than ever. It’ll just take self love—and a decent amount of lunges.