As I stare at the apple wearing my face in the full-length mirror in front of me, I make a mental note to shop looking so hard. It is something like passing an accident on the freeway. Motorists cannot avoid craning their necks to see victims strewn around, as horrifying as it is. This is the same thing. In my head, I am a 115 pound young woman; however the woman staring back at me looks a lot like my mother. Startled by the sudden revelation, my mind shifts back through the concourse of my life to record the silent, gradual stages of my abdominal distortion.
Hanging out at the local beach in the summer was more for meeting boys than for swimming purposes. My girlfriend and I pranced around clad in skimpy bikinis, pretending to be confident, when actually we were very insecure with ourselves. Secretly, my phobias were rampant: the pimple camped out on my forehead, was Mike going to look this way, and did the other girls look better than I did. However, my teenage belly rode tight and firm on my girlish straight frame, and frankly, the only thing I needed to worry about hanging out of my bikini was a tampon string.
Giving birth to a couple of kids works out quite nicely for the twenty-something abs. The slight womanly spread of the hips allows the tiny little pouch derived from pregnancy the room to settle back. The tight fitting black and purple leopard-print Halloween costume hid the secret while boasting a subtle hourglass figure. I was comfortable and confident in anything I was wearing - or was not wearing. Damn! I looked good and knew it.
Somewhere in my thirties, I began to realize the post-baby bump was turning into a car bumper. In order to harness the problem, it became necessary to trade in my size five pants for a larger size, and then later, even a larger size. Clinging desperately to my pride, I was still able to mimic a tall, slender illusion by altering the style of outfits. Regardless, it seemed my thirty-something abs demanded more real estate while my waist took a permanent vacation.
The forty-nowhere abs make a simple thong feel more like an underwear enema. Girdled underwear and tummy-control pantyhose become as necessary as the right arm. Shopping in the Junior Department to stay hip, lends an opportunity for the clerk to remind you the old-lady department is at the other end of the store. Adding insult to injury, the only remaining evidence of a six-pack is the one cooling in the refrigerator.
Upon coming to terms with my abdominal transformation, it becomes clear that living with an internal spare tie is part of the circle of life. It becomes mandatory to find new ways of defining oneself. Nourishing the mind, embracing humor, and letting go of yesterday has become my today. The next time I step in front of that mirror, I will merely wave and say, "Hi Mom!" then turn and walk away.
