My belly and I have this love-hate relationship. I just wish that me and the belly were two separate items, so that when the hate feeling kicked in, I could just look at my belly and said, “I think I have to start seeing other bellies. It’s just not working, you and I. It’s not you, it’s me”. And there would be sort of brief awkward pause, my belly would look down, and sighed, “OK”. And we would never be seeing each other again. Ever ever. Until the day I missed the belly and we agreed to see each other in that yummy frozen yogurt store by the cinema.
Unfortunately my belly has done so much in my life that I owe it quite a lot. My belly put up a lot with me, with my habit of eating funky food (pig brain, cow gut, chicken blood, chicken feet, to name a few) without protesting. My belly endured the 9-month period when my boy was in it. The belly decided to give itself a little reward by making some silver-ish broken lines all over it that I am convinced that I would not be flaunting bikinis ever ever in my life. And think about how many times my great husband is trying to poke his finger in my belly button! Even though his attempts, in so many times, was successfully stopped by kicking, kneeing, pinching him back, there are days that his finger get what his kooky brain wants. And my belly suffers. For me.
The thing is, it is only if the belly looks like the way I want it to be. (Yes I am that shallow). OK so the belly can hold all the yucky and yummy food, hold a baby and endure my husband’s finger. But on top of that, can you please stay flat, belly? Can you?? Why do you think that since you put up a lot with me, it gives you a permission to be flabby, with abstract-looking stretch marks? Why are you rewarding me with muffin top that I have no choice but sending couple pairs of perfectly awesome jeans to Goodwill? Why belly, why?
I try to do some exercise. Which I loathe doing it, so when I actually do it, I expect some respect from my belly that translates into INSTANT result. I mean instant like you-cook-your-chicken-nuggets-in-the-microwave kind of instant. And I don’t eat nuggets that often. I watch what I eat. That means Big Macs aren’t even in my vocabulary (although there are days I am willing to trade my puppy for a Mac).
But no, my belly stays stubborn. I start to think that, the belly hates me. It may think the way I am thinking. It may think that if only it and me were two separate items. It might have said something like this, “look I’ve put up a lot of shit with you, I carried your child, keep that darn hot spicy food in,and you keep torturing me with that weighted hoola-hoop and those exercises and oh by the way, tell your husband to keep his finger off me. You are such an ungrateful being! And since I cant just walk away from you, I’m going to make you miserable”.
So here it is. My stubborn belly that refuses to be flat and slender. And here I am. Trying to love my belly the way it is but alas why isn’t it flat? What’s wrong with you, belly? What else do you want from me?
I want to love my belly. I really do. So that I can think of something else, like a muffin that is actually food. Not a love handle. Or so that I can start worrying about something else. Like world peace. Or how long my car will last. Or wondering what’s the purpose of gray hair, or whether chicken can fly or do they just hover?