"Booty Pop"

New inventions are happening everyday. This is something I benefited from until I woke up old one day. Now, every new invention feels like another thing to learn, another thing to spend money on and another thing that’s just a few years too late. Once you graduate from the limelight of the 18- to 24-year-old demographic and you’re no longer the apple of every retailer’s eye, you fall into the grey, ambivalent area of 25- to 34-year-olds and new products don’t really appeal to anything other than your bitterness. So when I came across Booty Pop, I assumed my reaction was like many other 25- to 34-year-olds: Seriously? WTF!



According to the commercial, Booty Pop will give you a “sexier, more desirable booty instantly,” and it’s just like a “padded bra for your butt!” Every claim made my heart sink deeper into my protruding gut. As a curvy female who is proud to have something to shake, even if it is her upper arm, I feel conflicted. Is this a sign that society has finally become accepting of women with curves, with imitation (or simulation) being the most sincere form of flattery? Or is this just another way for skinny girls to get ahead, by perpetuating an unrealistic body type? I settled on the latter because in a society where Kim Kardashian can be famous for more than 15 minutes because she has an ass big enough to have its own zip code, Booty Pop is anything butt a step in the right direction for women and body image.

As the commercial says, “Booty Pop turns a droopy derriere into a youthful looking, head turning, bootylicious booty,” it cuts to scenes of men checking out women’s asses in inappropriate settings because, how else would you know you look hot? No one seems to care about how all these newly bootyfied women are going to be wearing dirty underwear all the time, because, you know, cleanliness is a virtue second only to hotness.

At this point in my life, I see a commercial for something like Booty Pop and the 18- to 24-year-old inside of me giggles while the 25- to 34-year-old inside of me rolls her eyes, swallows a regurgitation of feminist theory, and bitterly reflects on the past. I have spent the last decade overeating in hopes of one day having an ass like JLo, so you can imagine my disappointment when – after nine years of hard work, dedication and a strict diet of doughnuts, McDonald’s, beer and cheese cubes – someone decides to go and invent padded underwear.

So, you know what Booty Pop? You owe me 20 pounds of cellulite.

(And I don't think it's a coincidence that "Booty Pop" is one dangerous typo away from being "Booty Poop.")