Love Thy Belly

You’re lovely — all of you. Don’t let anybody convince you otherwise.

Do you ever give yourself a once-over before jumping into the shower? Yeah, we all do that daily. Some of us also spin, twist, and use other mirror angles to be more thorough. As I did this yesterday, I found that I currently appear to be in my second trimester. This made me sad. I considered radical lifestyle changes to get back to skinny. Then, I began going through the trade-offs.

Stop drinking. Yikes. Short of painkillers, this is the most effective way to deal with daily stress. This can be modified to “stop drinking beer.” But, I like beer. It’s refreshing, inexpensive, and sugar-free. No way. Stop drinking wine. Lots of calories in wine. Fuck that. I love wine. Stop drinking hard liquor. This is fast-acting social lubrication, so fuck that, too. Maybe I can just cut back on drinking. Nah. I teeter under the legal limit. I like it there. Alcohol and I get along just fine. It makes me tolerable.

Stop eating snacks. Do you know what’s better than a bag of kettle cooked jalapeno potato chips? Two bags. Nothing else. This is as close to sex as possible without needing a moist towelette. Maybe I could cut out chocolate. Seriously? Fuck that. On my death bed, you know what I’m going to regret most? Not eating more dark chocolate M&Ms. Well, OK. Not eating more M&Ms from my lady’s love triangle. How’s that?

Exercise more. I enjoy the gym, but spending more time there means spending less time doing the things (listed above) I love more. Running plain sucks. There is no runner’s high for me. It’s a fucking low. Gasping for air while bouncing on a belt is a form of torture. Riding a bike hurts my balls. Here’s my favorite workout: Throw baseballs, spit, then drink beer in parking lot.

Love my belly. This means handing out fuck-offs to anyone who disapproves of my shape. Are my butt, man-boobs, and love handles too much for you to handle? Well, take your blended kale ass away from me. I’m not skipping any meal I crave. I’m eating it, wearing it, and loving it. My fat means I’ll outlive you in a famine, Mr. Abs. I’ll also be tastier in the cannibal apocalypse. A heavier me means more time spent fucking up … literally. Being a bottom means two free hands for her two lovely globs of fatty glands. Yay!

Life is way too short to concern ourselves with a few extra inches when gaining them is so much fun.