Dear Unwanted Belly Flap,
Oh, how I wish I could start this letter on a positive note, but let’s be honest—I really don’t like you. It’s hard to find the right words to describe you; “flap” or “shelf” both feel inadequate. But if I had to choose, I’d call you something much worse—because unlike my other body parts, you just appeared out of nowhere and decided to stay, creating an awkward bulge that refuses to be tamed.
I vividly recall our first encounter after my C-section. My fingers hesitantly explored the unfamiliar landscape of my abdomen. “Surely, this is just swelling,” I thought optimistically, imagining it would all smooth out in no time. Oh, how wrong I was!
Time has passed, and while my little one has grown, you remain—a strange, fleshy addition that seems to have taken up permanent residence. I’ve tried to embrace your presence, but every time I have to adjust you or tuck you into my pants, I’m reminded of how much I wish you weren’t there. No amount of inspirational articles on body positivity can change the fact that what I really need is a surgical solution for this doughy mess resting above my pubic bone.
Before you arrived, I didn’t exactly have a supermodel figure, but your presence has only intensified my feelings of insecurity. Stretch marks can be hidden under clothing, but you, my friend, are a show-off. You thrive on attention, especially when I wear my favorite yoga pants, as if you’re waving a neon sign that screams, “Look at me!” Meanwhile, I’m left adjusting my shirt to hide you, worrying that onlookers might confuse you for something totally unflattering.
You’ve claimed a space that’s impossible to suck in, turning my life into a quest for uncomfortable shapewear. Even when you’re somewhat concealed, I can feel you lurking beneath the fabric, just waiting to make a grand escape. It’s downright unsexy having to maneuver around you during basic grooming tasks, and let’s not even mention the awkwardness of zipping my jeans.
In short, I’m over you. Your arrival was a complete surprise, and you definitely weren’t invited to this party. You lounge around like a lazy houseguest who doesn’t plan to leave anytime soon. I’ve tried exercise, but you’re stubborn, and guilt trips don’t seem to work either. So, I guess I’ll just have to keep hunting for longer shirts and try to accept you for now. But mark my words, if I ever hit the jackpot, I’m heading straight for the nearest cosmetic surgeon to evict you once and for all.
So, consider this a warning—I’m off to buy a lottery ticket or ten.
Best of luck (not that you need it),
Me