Once upon a time, long before J.Lo.’s derriere made bubble butts fashionable, I hid mine under long sweaters or tunic blouses. Then her hindness entered the picture and Sir Mix-A-Lot’s song “Baby Got Back” got everybody singing the praises of a bodacious behind, and for a very brief point in my life my callipygian curves were cool.

Then I had my first child and from that point forward I was more worried about the collapse of my cleavage than about the plummet of my posterior. Those pretty little $5 bras I’d pick up at Wal-Mart? I tossed them in favor of the kind of supportive bra that only an engineer could design: massive straps, ribbing in all the right places, enough metal in the underwire and clasps to set off an airport alarm even when I’m just driving past.

Now, I don’t mind wearing such things if it’ll take care of the ta-ta’s and keep them from hitting me — or anyone else — in the eye when I walk.

But an ass bra? That’s so not happening.

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