I’d Like To Keep My Stomach on the Flat Side But It Won’t Cooperate

I never had a flat stomach. Not before I was pregnant and not even when I was a kid and my parents went through a hippy-ish macrobiotic stage and fed us a combination of black-eyed peas and vegetables for a few months. I spent most of second grade hungry because what kid likes black-eyed peas?

Thankfully, one of them finally decided they liked meat and they moved on to their next odd hobby. Was it the giant-sandbox-in-the-basement phase where my dad reenacted historical wars with miniature plastic soldiers? Or the house-is-filthy-so-I-must-scrub-it-endlessly phase my mother went through after realizing she grew up with a hoarder parent before being a hoarder was a thing? (My childhood was quirky.)

Anyway, when I come across pictures of the black-eyed peas phase I notice how I look like a starving Ethiopian kid – all skinny legs and jutting ribs, but with a rounded belly.

I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t in a battle with my midsection, ping-pong-ing between acceptance and loathing. I get impatient in my ab area when I commit to being a better eater and exerciser and have a low tolerance for its roundness and protrusion.

But sometimes I’ll lay in bed and run my hand over the squishy flesh around my waistline and feel maybe a little fondness for it. It’s always been a part of me and it’s familiar. I might be ready to bid it farewell but I also might miss it. Am I silly for feeling sentimental over a blob of belly fat? Perhaps, yes. But I’m committed to being healthy and eating right so bye-bye tummy.

Except after some time when I avoid sugary treats and crappy processed food and spend hours doing ab exercises I get frustrated because the belly fat isn’t shrinking as quickly as I think it should.  

That is when my stomach reminds me of a house guest who doesn’t realize they overstayed their welcome and keeps hanging around your personal space expecting you to supply them with food and comfort continually.  

It makes me go, “Okay stomach. If that’s how you’re going to play it, I’ll eat a box of donuts instead of this apple.”

Which causes those days when my jeans won’t button and I’m fishing a rubber band out of the drawer to bridge the gap between the button and the hole and maybe feeling a bit of self-loathing.  

Put the sweets down. Eat a salad. Move more. Try harder.

It’s ludicrous and not helpful. I tell myself, “Stop already!” while my belly is unchanged. Or maybe it’s a little bit smaller or a little bit bigger. 

So many miles of space in my brain consumed by so few inches on my stomach.

It's silly, don’t you think?