His golf buddy had just walked up to me and said, "I heard about what happened."

At first, I didn't know what he meant. Then he said, "You don't have a big butt."

From across the patio, my husband looked at me and smiled.

I shot him a look that said, "WARNING! WARNING! Your life is in danger!"

I thought when guys played golf they talked abut the Dow Jones and putters and told dirty jokes. After being married for more than 20 years, my husband should have known that it's fine for me to talk about my fat butt. But it's really off-limits for him and particularly for his golf buddies.

Here's how it all started:

I woke up feeling Charlie Brown-vulnerable. I needed to lose 10-15 pounds. My skin looked like I was going through puberty again. I wanted to hide under my bed.

The Hormonal School of Thought (the headmaster of this school being my husband) attributed my morose mood to a dangerously low estrogen level. I believed it was from a fluctuation in lunar rhythms and overloading on chips and salsa the night before.

He suggested we go for a walk that evening. The brisk walk and chilly air set free the imprisoned endorphins in my head.

Finally feeling better, I began to purge my soul.

That's when a teenager yelled from a passing car, "Hey, your girlfriend has a fat…" (rhymes with sass, crass or Mama Cass).

Even the birds stopped chirping. It was as if the entire city froze, except for my fat rear, which wanted to walk backward all the way home.

It didn't matter that the car was coming toward us and not from behind.

It didn't matter that I don't have a fat butt; I have a flat butt.

It didn't matter that my husband kept repeatedly saying, "I love you. I think you're beautiful." Or that he said I was "randomly picked," even though there was no one else walking within a four-mile radius.

It took me a day to regain my appetite and sense of humor.

"What are we having for dinner?" my husband asked.

"Rump roast," I answered.

I decided that having someone declare that you have an oversized posterior is not such a bad thing. After all, people have written songs about big buns, like "Baby Got Back." And Lloyd's of London was rumored to have insured J. Lo's voluptuous backside for a million or so.

As for me, it's questionable whether my HMO would "cover" my derriere.

But the kids did refer to me as my husband's girlfriend -- not his old lady. That counts for something.

To find out more about Mimi Kopulos, and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators website at www.creators.com.
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