The Anti-Office Butt Plan
My college degree prepared me for most things I would encounter in the workplace. It did not consider the most important aspect of office culture: the ‘Secretary Spread.’ The inevitable broadening of the hips that comes from prolonged hours spent in an office chair.
I arrived on the first day of my new job bright-eyed with my pink pants freshly pressed, iced coffee in hand, and decorations for my desk shoved into my purse. Desk jobs and “office culture” are often stereotyped as dull and soul-sucking—and, honestly, it’s true. But I wasn’t about to be an accomplice to that image even if there was an aroma of freshly brewed coffee and stale farts that lingered about the place.
Once I had decorated my cubicle with a collection of pink and purple items, I turned my attention to the blinds. All the windows of the building had their blinds closed furthering the cave feeling of the space. I, of course, climbed onto my desk—the only way to reach the handle for the blinds—and opened them.
Opening the blinds might’ve been a mistake. Though it allowed me to see the outside world and receive some blessed Vitamin D, it also illuminated the bottoms.
I was struck with the horror of misshapen backsides at every square foot of the office. On my way to the break room, I passed aged lumps that had once been rounded and firm now took on the shape of triangles, their curves flattened by the unforgiving press of an office chair. Hips that had given up the good fight.
What corner had this secret been lurking around? How long had it waited to reveal itself, in all its gruesome honesty? Advisors, internships, and shadowing—all of it had omitted the one detail that could have deterred me from taking the job.
The office chair, as we know it, has a long history dating back to 1849 with the debut of the first swivel chair by Thomas E. Warren, featuring velvet lining, metallic swirls, and a skirt to conceal its mechanisms. It’s an office chair that looks ready to go to the ball. The 1860s marked the beginning of the bustle, an accessory placed underneath a lady’s dress intended to enhance the desired figure of slender waists and voluptuous bottoms, well-known throughout the Victorian period to this day. It seems rather damning that the bustle appeared so soon after the office chair was placed in businesses.
Eight hours in an office chair will inevitably transform the shape of one’s buns. I have grown rather attached to the current shape of mine. Frankly, I would even say my butt is a pivotal part of my personality. Given today’s cultural relevance for the emphasis of “big-bottoms” I don’t consider this to be an outlandish statement. Fueled by equal parts fear and desire, the former for the longevity of my backside and the latter for the fight against the inevitable end my coworkers arrived at, I began to construct a plan.
A standing desk or walking pad wasn’t an option in my line of work. I haven’t earned enough trust to be allowed to work from home, and I cannot afford a gym membership on my current salary. The community gym included at my apartment complex would have to do. With that decided, I needed to build the perfect routine.
There was just one problem with this plan: Marley.
Marley is a spoiled princess. She loves to talk and is sure to be the loudest in any room. Her wardrobe is larger than necessary, and every item in it is pink. Plus, she gets a new accessory for every holiday. Marley has never known a day where she did not get her way. She is a dog. She is also rather anxious.
Heading home to change before going to the gym caused a very dramatic display of betrayal from Marley. And because I am a weak-spined pushover, it made me feel guilty. I tried bringing her along on my runs, but at eight pounds and roughly nine inches tall, Marley wasn’t exactly built for mile-long runs. Thus, the Anti-Office Butt Plan had to be amended. I started to pack workout clothes in my purse, changing in the employee bathrooms five minutes before clocking out. My workout clothes remained hidden under my business casual attire, much like a Victorian lady’s concealed bustle. From there, I drove home, parked as far away from my front door as possible, and began to strip off my classy business sweater and shuck out of my slacks, hoping no one peered into my car window and thought I was putting on a solo strip-tease. Two months into The Anti-Office Butt Plan, I had been winning the battles against gravity. Secretary Spread would not claim my youthful hind end. Three times a week, I either went on a run or visited the shabby little gym at my apartment complex.
In my quest to preserve my youthful derrière, I had to adopt the mindset of an adulterous husband, sneaking out to avoid causing Marley undue stress. But one day, as I set out for a run, I looked up and saw Marley watching me through the window. I had never fooled her. She had memorized the sound of my car pulling into the lot.
The bustle eventually fell out of fashion as women took on more active roles in society—ones that required clothing suited for a wider range of mobility. In short: they just didn’t like it anymore.
Meanwhile, the office chair continues to evolve, now designed with the intention for “...what the body needs and not just what the eye wants.” Whether or not a chair will ever be invented to preserve our bottoms rather than flatten them remains to be seen. But I’ve found a new peace with my office chair. The Anti-Office Butt Plan looked ridiculous to me now. I’d been adding unnecessary steps to a routine that hadn’t improved my daily life. A new plan began to form, one revolving around my peace of mind.
I’ve started taking Marley on longer evening walks. When I want to do cardio or strength training, I head to the backyard. Marley gets to join me there, weaving through my legs as I do squats and sprinting circles while I do jumping jacks, and her happy tail wags the whole time.
It may not be the five-star gym down the street and I might not be breaking new personal records with interestingly designed workout machines. I find myself smiling through these workouts. Smiling while working out is a phenomenon I’d never experienced before.
The office chair wasn’t designed to preserve perfectly shaped butts. The bustle wasn’t designed for an active lifestyle. And my twenties were not meant for exhausting, joyless routines. Maybe I’ll make a new plan one day, or finally cough up the $20 a month for that gym membership, but for now, I will gladly accept a flatter butt if it means I can spend more time with my dog.
