Belly Fat

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Abstract

otrusion. I am not stretching it back and flattening it with imagined clothespins (or ‘skinpins’). I am not judging its poundage or contemplating the number of situps required to shrink it. I am simply looking at it. There it is; a part of me.I see you, Tummy Flesh. You are the protector of my innards. You are the insulation around my third chakra. You are the meat of my power center.This acceptance of my midsection did not happen overnight.Or perhaps it did. Perhaps I just woke up today and realized that, at 44, my mushy middle wasn’t going anywhere just because I wrote “Do crunches” on my list in the morning or vowed to stop snacking once the kids leave for school. If I truly wanted it gone I would actually have to perform some ab exercises or abstain from my daily Oreos… which, in all honesty, isn’t going to happen.Because, maybe, just maybe, I don’t NEED to have a flat stomach to be beautiful, desirable, worthy, loved, or empowered.Maybe that’s a myth we are fed by society and there is ZERO TRUTH in it.After all, my husband doesn’t seem to mind my jiggly tummy… he

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just wants in on the action no matter what. And I know plenty of women who are soft and round (my own mother included), and who are also strong and brave and loving and powerful. When I see them, my heart becomes full.And that, my sisters, is Real Beauty, belly fat and all.My daughter (she is 4) has the most beautiful round belly. It is my favorite thing. The delicate, firm curve of her midsection arcs outward with the sweetness of a teddy bear or a baby Buddha.“Tummy kisses!” I say as I dress her for bed.She giggles, hands on hips, and pushes her belly out. I rest my cheek on her navel, whispering You are the best belly ever, and she proudly wiggles it side to side.Women’s bellies are so important. They are both our softness and our power. Yet we are taught that they should be diminished and flattened.I hope my daughter (ALL the daughters, for that matter) will always look in the mirror and shimmy her midsection, in whatever iteration it is in at the time, declaring it to be the Most Beautiful Belly Ever.</article></body>

Finding camaraderie with my perpetual sidekick

Standing in my bathroom, I peer down at the flesh protruding over the top of my athletic shorts. It looks like a dimpled loaf of unbaked bread, or maybe a doubled-over baguette. Whitish and smooth, it rises as I breathe. Like yeast. I poke at it, and it jiggles a bit. As if it thinks itself to be Jolly.

Its appearance is nothing new. I’ve analyzed this flesh for decades in its various iterations: spilled out over the top of my stonewashed, peg-legged jeans; shoved into Spanx; rolling like waves under a lycra cocktail dress; growing veiny and bulbous around my offspring, and drooping like a deflated balloon after they moved out.

But today something is different.

I am not scowling at its protrusion. I am not stretching it back and flattening it with imagined clothespins (or ‘skinpins’). I am not judging its poundage or contemplating the number of situps required to shrink it. I am simply looking at it. There it is; a part of me.

I see you, Tummy Flesh. You are the protector of my innards. You are the insulation around my third chakra. You are the meat of my power center.

This acceptance of my midsection did not happen overnight.

Or perhaps it did. Perhaps I just woke up today and realized that, at 44, my mushy middle wasn’t going anywhere just because I wrote “Do crunches” on my list in the morning or vowed to stop snacking once the kids leave for school. If I truly wanted it gone I would actually have to perform some ab exercises or abstain from my daily Oreos… which, in all honesty, isn’t going to happen.

Because, maybe, just maybe, I don’t NEED to have a flat stomach to be beautiful, desirable, worthy, loved, or empowered.

Maybe that’s a myth we are fed by society and there is ZERO TRUTH in it.

After all, my husband doesn’t seem to mind my jiggly tummy… he just wants in on the action no matter what. And I know plenty of women who are soft and round (my own mother included), and who are also strong and brave and loving and powerful. When I see them, my heart becomes full.

And that, my sisters, is Real Beauty, belly fat and all.

My daughter (she is 4) has the most beautiful round belly. It is my favorite thing. The delicate, firm curve of her midsection arcs outward with the sweetness of a teddy bear or a baby Buddha.

“Tummy kisses!” I say as I dress her for bed.

She giggles, hands on hips, and pushes her belly out. I rest my cheek on her navel, whispering You are the best belly ever, and she proudly wiggles it side to side.

Women’s bellies are so important. They are both our softness and our power. Yet we are taught that they should be diminished and flattened.

I hope my daughter (ALL the daughters, for that matter) will always look in the mirror and shimmy her midsection, in whatever iteration it is in at the time, declaring it to be the Most Beautiful Belly Ever.