I heart my belly fat, and why I’m showing it off at work today. June 25, 2008

I have this belly fat. It’s like a jello-y bulge that makes itself known in every shirt I have. It’s noticeable enough that I occasionally get asked if I am pregnant. My answer: “No, just fat.” Or: “I had my baby six years ago, this is just his leaving-the-womb present.” Or: “Yeah, I’m pregnant to a six-pack of tacos and too many margaritas.” I’m not offended by people saying this. It’s totally alright. I have skinny arms, skinny legs, I’m tall, and I have this protruding belly. So I just do my best to come up with witty one-liners. Sometimes I do wish I could wear some of those cute tops that show your belly button, but trust me, no one wants to see that.

Which brings us to the yard sale up the street. Some woman has been sitting on the front steps of her apartment building with a clothes rack and a jumble of shoes. Every time I ride by on my bike she shouts at me: “Come check out some of these clothes.” Well, I took pity on her the other day. She looked lonely, and I was also a little tired of getting yelled at, to be quite honest. When I approached her, she smelled like vodka, and she looked at me like vodka. She picked up this very cute plum-colored shirt and said “Here this’ll look nice on you. You like this, right?”

I looked at the tag only to find a giant S emblazoned on it. “Oh, this is small, I’m a medium to large at least. It’ll never fit.”

She looked me up and down like a tailor. “Oh it’ll fit, here take it. Two dollars.”

Well, now, how can I argue with that logic? I gave her a couple bills and walked on home. The tiny purple shirt sat on my bedroom floor for a few days until I decided to wash it. Today it made itself apparent to me in my drawer. I had completely forgotten about it. “Hey,” I thought. “There’s that drunk lady’s shirt.” I pulled and stretched it on, and walked out into the living room to show it off to Mitch.

“Do you think this is too tight?” I asked, knowing he would give me the answer that was the truth rather than the one he thought I would want to hear. His response, “I dunno. Looks fine to me.” Well, at least I know that was exactly what he thought.

In the car, the bottom edge of the shirt surprisingly popped up and there was belly fat, stretch marks and all. “See, it is too small, isn’t it?” Mitch only shrugged. He didn’t really care, I could tell. I’m sure my concern confuses him.

When Mitch dropped me off at work, I would estimate that I pulled down the bottom of my shirt close to ten times before I actually got to my desk. And now, here I am, at my desk, typing this blog with my baby belly fat hanging out to the world.

Yes, the shirt is too tight. Not so tight that I can’t get by, however. I think if I was in slightly better shape it would fit just fine. But for the moment, my belly’s exposed. And it’s alright. My son gave me that fat, therefore I love it! And that is why, if you see me today, I’m probably flashing you. I hope you enjoy it!