I was not even thinking of the priest I have mentioned before, who said that sometimes he thinks that heaven is just a new pair of glasses. I was becoming a convert to What Cellulite Turns Into Down The Road Chic Tired Feet of a Czechoslovakian Dockworker Chic. But the article on Junkie Chic was making me feel militantly on my own sorry-ass side. Now granted, the girls on the plane were mostly youthful and bouncy and physically stunning, if you happen to find tan, lean youth attractive. Someone less secure about her own beauty might have said, 'Too many teenage girls.' But I was able to look down my nose at them because I was reading a magazine containing a big article on Junkie Chic, on society's current exhortation of drowsy, skaggy emaciation. There were all these teenage girls on board in tiny shorts that my 7-year-old son could have borrowed. I started off in heavy Butt-Mind on the plane headed to Huatulco.

Also it happened to be Easter week, which meant there would be lots of teenage girls, only a few of whom, statistically, could be expected to have droopy butts and major dimpling issues. I did not expect things to be any different this time, because gravity is having its say, and the dimples are deepening and conquering new territories. Mostly at Club Med it was much worse-than. Sometimes my butt was better-than, although it is definitely the butt of a mother who keeps forgetting to work out. In earlier incarnations I've spent days and entire weeks comparing my butt to everyone else's butt. Sam and I went with our best friends to Club Med a couple of months ago, and I got another little brown-bag victory: I broke through Butt-Mind or at any rate, have only had the mildest case of Butt-Mind ever since. S piritual experiences do not happen so frequently at Club Med for normal people who travel well but there is no one fitting that description around here.

Anne lamott plan b