An Open Letter to My Unwanted Post-Pregnancy Belly Flap

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Hey there, Weird Belly Flap,

Let’s just get this out of the way: I’m not a fan of you. Seriously, I’m at a loss for what to even call you—flap? Shelf? Whatever the term, it boils down to one thing: you’re a nuisance. Honestly, I’d rather deal with a surprise pimple than have you awkwardly protruding from my waistband.

I’ll never forget the moment we first met after my C-section. I remember gingerly exploring the new landscape of my belly and thinking, “Oh, this will surely go down in no time.” Who was I kidding? Here we are, and you’re still hanging around like an unwanted guest who overstayed their welcome.

It’s been ages since my little one was a baby, and yet you still refuse to budge. Every time I have to tuck you into my underwear or adjust you like you’re some misplaced body part, I’m reminded how much I dislike you. I’ve read all the motivational articles about body positivity, but honestly, I could use a little surgical enhancement to fix this situation.

Sure, I didn’t have the body of a swimsuit model before you showed up, but I also didn’t need your help in making my midsection look like a disaster zone. Stretch marks? At least they can be hidden under clothes. But you? Oh no, you demand to be seen. When I slip into my favorite yoga pants, it’s like I’m wearing a neon sign that says, “Look here!” I tug at my shirt, worried that people are whispering, “Is that a camel toe?”

To add insult to injury, you’ve set up camp in a spot where I can’t even suck you in. Thanks to you, I’ve spent a small fortune on shapewear that’s as uncomfortable as it is ineffective. When I finally do manage to conceal you, I know you’re just biding your time until you can make a grand re-entrance, flopping over my C-section scar like a beer belly over a tight belt.

Let’s talk about the unsexy reality of grooming. Lifting you up to shave feels pointless, like polishing a rock. And the numbness? Creepy. At least it softens the blow when I accidentally zip you up in my jeans.

In short, I’m over you. Nobody warned me you’d crash the party, and trust me, you weren’t invited. You’re like that mooching friend who won’t leave the basement. I can’t seem to exercise you away, and guilt isn’t doing the trick either. So, for now, I’ll continue hunting for longer shirts and trying to accept your presence. But mark my words: if I ever come into some cash, I’m heading straight to the nearest plastic surgeon for a little eviction notice.

So watch out, because I’m off to buy a lottery ticket. Or ten.

No love,
Me

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