Bellyaching

All my favorite summer shirts have shrunk.

Last night I  put on my favorite  linen shirt, and once I exhaled, could see my pale white belly flesh poking out between the buttons.  It was gross and fascinating all at the same time. But mostly gross.

This could be me. It isn't.
But it could be.

So I tried on a few other tops.  In an effort to be French, I prefer that all my clothes have a defined waist, but since I don’t actually have a waist anymore, nothing fit. Even if I did hold my stomach in the whole night, I still couldn’t clap my hands or get something off a top shelf, and as I was going to a dinner party, I needed maximum range of motion just in case I needed to hail a taxi.

Luckily I recently bought a fabulous smock-y type thing that I was able to wear, but pants were another problem. The smart little Levi demi curve skinny jeans that I wore all last summer still do up, but ONLY if I arrange my tummy/boobs to hang over the waistband. Even then it’s hard to sit down, and crossing my legs is out of the question.

But nobody really wants to hear my bellyaching.  Probably because I have been whining about my weight since I was sixteen, and it’s gotten boring. And because the girlfriends who have gone through pregnancies  don’t get hung up on temporary weights. There are enough mid life crisis’s out there – and  low on the sympathy list is someone who has been exceedingly well fed.

Still, it’s hard to believe entire season of clothes is too small. But what’s really hard to believe is that, in five and a half short weeks from now, my belly will be up around my armpits. (Ouch!). Post surgery I expect to have all sorts of swelling and weirdness, as things settle into place. 

Followed, God willing, by a flat belly. The non-aching type.