untitled story about my ass

I got a letter from the post office today. They wrote to tell me that my ass has officially been assigned its own zip code. I mean, I'd joked about this happening one day, but I never really thought it would. What you don't hear about in the jokes, however, is the fee associated with having a zip code for your ass. They want $79 a year to forward mail and packages. I can't throw that kind of money away right now, so I'm hoping to take them up on their 30-day grace period, in which time I may "reduce the size of your ass by 15% to nullify this agreement." I sure hope I don't let them down.

Meanwhile, as it turns out, the rest of New York appears to LOVE my ass. Now, mind you, I'm not saying this in an arrogant, self-inflated way. I really don't like the size of my ass, and would love to save my $79 by getting it down by 15%. But I am fascinated--FASCINATED--by the men in New York who comment on my ass on a daily basis.

For example, today in my 20 minute commute from the subway to my apartment, I was hooted, hollered, winked or whistled at by no less than 9 men. (No molestations today, thankfully.) And 9 is enough for me to safely say, with scientific accuracy, that it's never the white guys--not that I care. If the white guys are too busy hustling around in their brown loafers with their white polo shirts tucked neatly into their dockers, then so be it. I got the bruthas on my side now! They like my junk in the trunk!

So among today's cat calls there was a very entertaining and slightly unnerving moment when I approached an intersection but could not yet cross. Not only was my light red, but there was also a giant backhoe spinning erratically in the street, lurching without warning into traffic before reversing and pausing to dump a load of tar. On one pass, the driver of the backhoe dropped his bucket into the tar pile to my right, then looked up at me and smiled. Fully blocking two lanes of traffic, he proceeded to beep his horn. Until this moment, I had no idea backhoes even had horns. But evidently they do: very loud ones.

Mr. Backhoe Driver then drove over to where his buddies were, beeping at them and pointing at me. One by one they all put their shovels in the dirt and leaned on them, then turned to stare at me. I grew increasingly embarrassed, especially when the now backed-up traffic started honking in their displeasure for the delay. All they could see was an unmoving backhoe and a bunch of standstill men with shovels shouting many words in my direction in languages I didn't understand. (I really should have taken Spanish in high school.) I began to envision newspaper headlines like "Giant Ass Causes Gridlock" and "Behemoth Backside Buckles Backhoe." When the light finally turned green, I bolted across the street, where other young, non-white guys, having overheard what was said about me across the street, started licking their lips and making kissy sounds. This, I assure you, NEVER happened when I lived in Boston.

But is it flattering? More than a little. Scary? Almost. Any one of these guys could have watched me go five more steps into my apartment building where I checked the mail and received, you guessed it, the letter from the post office about my enormous ass. In fact, I should bring one of them with me when I dispute the charges. Nothing like a panel of kissy faces and gyrating hips to plead a case of inappropriate ass zoning.