Ab Fab? Try Ab Flab
The world is in turmoil. It’s the perfect time to write an open letter to my tummy.
Why, hello, Belly Fat.
I haven’t seen you ‘round these parts lately. My, you’re soft and jiggly. Where ever did you come from?
Hold on. I do remember you. You hung around for a good long time after I gave birth, especially the second time. Eventually, though, you kind of disappeared. In fact, I was confident I’d seen just about the last of you. I was pretty determined to keep you at bay, so I was diligent about doing crunches and lifts at the gym.
But now you’re back, and how. I suppose I haven’t been particularly focused on you lately. Aside from raising kids and meeting deadlines and walking the dog in the rain, the election really knocked me for a loop. Since chocolate has been clinically approved as an antidote for depression (No? Well, it should be), and since my gym has the TV permanently tuned to breaking political news, you can’t blame me for hunkering down on my couch instead of building my wall (abdominally speaking) against you. Things have gotten a bit loose (literally) in that department. I guess oversight just isn’t what it used to be.
Plus, I’m married. Hubby and I are closing in on 18 years of matrimony. What do you mean, so what? After nearly two decades together, he doesn’t care much about you, Belly Fat. As far as he’s concerned, you can come and go as you please. (In case you’re listening, I prefer you go.) Frankly, he and I both know that in the scheme of things, you’re extremely unimportant.
Still, I can’t help but notice you’ve become awfully, well, intrusive. Seems you can’t help but remind me — smugly, I dare say — my favorite jeans may feel a tad too snug, a hair too tight after sitting down for more than, say, six minutes.
Fine. I’ll wear a tunic.
Belly Fat, I can’t help but think there’s something deliberate in the timing of your reappearance. We both know it’s no coincidence you’ve settled in for a good long stay — if I was a betting woman, I’d say you’ve taken up permanent residence — just a few weeks shy of my next birthday.
(Which one, you ask? My 40th. Yes, again.)
It must be a sign of maturity that I’m starting to accept that whatever I do, wherever I go, from now on you’ll be along for the ride. We pick our battles, right? (Did you really just mutter something about Battle of the Bulge? Please.)
One thing’s for certain. I’m going to celebrate my next birthday in style. I’ll be with the friends and family I love, and I’m certain they won’t mind (or even notice) if I want — okay, if I need — to let it all hang out. In fact, only one thing is really bothering me: Belly Fat, your invitation to my party does not include a plus one. What’s your insufferable friend Saggy Butt doing here?
Willow Older is a nationally and internationally published writer and a professional editor. She lives in Northern California where she runs her own editorial services business and publishes a weekly newsletter called Newsy!.
