Ass as Metaphor (or, How the Junk in My Trunk Set Me Free!)

This post by Annalisa reminded me of an ass-related comment I once received .

This is what happened:

Several years ago (circa pre J-Lo) I was walking down the street in, of all places, a Guatemalan village. A man walking in back of me called out -- he turned out to be someone I'd met months ago in another city, a Kenyan making a circuit of Central America. He seemed bemused as he walked up to greet me, and then stated matter-of-factly, "You know, from behind you really can't tell what race you are."

I surreptitiously reached back to take a swipe at my butt, trying to make sense of what he'd said. Was there a flag or something hanging off my ass? Was there some sort of deformity I was unaware of back there? What did he mean, "my race"? Butts didn't denote race, did they? And if they did, was mine white, black, multi-racial? Should I be insulted? Embarrassed? But the Kenyan just continued on with the conversation, ignorant of my confusion. Only later did I realize the comment was a compliment of sorts, but one I didn’t immediately grasp because of my own cultural myopia. He liked my fat ass, only I had never taken the time to notice much about my ass at all.

I'm not sure why I'm telling this little anecdote, maybe because I mark that time in my life as the beginning of a change in my set of internal beauty standards. But also, I guess this little story serves to show that we don't really know what other people admire, or judge, or appreciate or perceive about us, and sometimes finding out can shake your own perceptions up in a good way.
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Alas, no running yet, as my lungs keep making a valiant, diligent effort to be coughed out.

However. I've lifted the credit card ban to pay for 6-week salsa class. Most excellent!