You know what to do: Click “play” to enjoy this post-accompanying tune:

I am genetically pre-disposed to have “junk in my trunk”. There, I said it. The fact that my bootie could have its own zip code is something I accepted a long time ago, and for the most part, I am not bothered by it. When I get a little frustrated about it, I tell myself the same thing I tell myself whenever I have bodily insecurities: I’m fit, I exercise often…what are ya gonna do?

I first came to grips with the size of my badonkadonk at the age of about seven or eight. I remember this very, very vividly. I was in my ballet class, standing at the barre, and my teacher was walking by the row of us girls, checking out our stance.

“Stand straight, and tuck your rear end in,” she said.

“I am!” I replied. And I was. Frankly, my rear end stuck out even when I had it tucked in. It frustrated me that I couldn’t look like all of the other little girls in my class, but I let it go.

Several years ago, a friend observed me working out in my new dance pants and exclaimed, “Wow, you look like J.Lo!”

Now…was my glass half full, or half empty? Was she saying, “Gawd, your butt is HUGE!” or “Hey, your butt looks really good, just like that gorgeous Latina superstar!”

Naturally, because I am an optimist, I chose to hear her comment as it related to the latter.

Today, my heart was warmed and the giggles were brought on by a very short conversation I had with Jim. I was feeling a little down about myself and said to him, “I wish I didn’t have a Bubble Butt.”

Without missing a beat, he replied, “I wish I didn’t have a Bubble Gut.”

He always knows just what to say.