Dear Unwelcome Flap of Abdominal Skin,
I have to say, I really can’t stand you.
Honestly, I’m not sure whether to label you a “flap,” a “shelf,” or something more technical. But if I had to pick a name, I’d go with “nuisance.” You see, unlike other body parts, you decided to show up unannounced and create an unsightly bulge that’s impossible to conceal. It’s safe to say that I hold a deep grudge against you.
The first time I encountered you was after my C-section, as I gingerly explored the new landscape of my abdomen. I thought to myself, “That incision looks a bit swollen.” I foolishly believed that it would shrink down over time.
Oh, how wrong I was.
My little one has long outgrown the baby phase, yet there you are, stubbornly lingering like an unwelcome guest. I’ve made attempts to accept you, but every time I find myself adjusting you into my underwear or trying to conceal you like an awkward third breast, I’m reminded of just how much I dislike your presence. I can read all the positive body image articles I want, but the only uplifting I desire is a trip to the plastic surgeon to address this unfortunate situation.
While I may not have looked like a swimsuit model before your arrival, my post-pregnancy midsection certainly didn’t need your assistance in becoming a mess. Stretch marks can be hidden beneath clothing, but you? No, you’ve made it your mission to be noticed. When I don my favorite yoga pants, I might as well wear a flashing neon sign pointing at the peculiar lump that you’ve become. It’s mortifying, and I find myself tugging at my shirt to cover you up, fretting about what others might be whispering behind my back.
To make matters worse, you’ve positioned yourself in a way that makes it impossible for me to suck you in. I’ve wasted money on uncomfortable shapewear that barely keeps you at bay. Even when I manage to conceal you, I know you’re lurking, ready to spill out over my C-section scar, much like a beer belly over a tight belt.
And let’s talk about the unsexy reality of having to lift you up while grooming down there; it feels utterly pointless, akin to polishing a rock. To add to the discomfort, you’re often numb, which only amplifies the creepiness of our relationship. At least it softens the blow when I accidentally zip you into my jeans.
The bottom line is, I’m fed up with you. Nobody warned me about your arrival, and you certainly weren’t invited to stay. Yet here you are, lounging around like a freeloader who won’t leave. I can’t seem to exercise you away, and the guilt trip isn’t working either. So for now, I’ll keep searching for longer shirts and try to come to terms with your existence. But mark my words: if I ever strike it rich, I’ll head straight to the nearest plastic surgery center for your eviction.
So, be warned, I’m off to buy a lottery ticket—or ten.
Best,
Jenna
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