Belly Up!

And now for a break in our regular Paris programming for a word on women’s vanity. Or, more specifically, my own.

I’ve become obsessed with my belly. I measure it, I squeeze it, I crunch it. This is the definition of navel-gazing, isn’t it? Could I become one of those narcissistic people we all love to hate?

Maybe my monomania is caused by a spate of my friends posing in bikinis on Facebook. Maybe I’m worried about getting old. You would be, too, if you spent as much time as I do, lately, writing about death.

I hate diets. Only once in my life have I lost weight, and that was by accident. When people asked me my trick, I said, “It’s the my-divorce-is-so-stressful my-stomach-is-filled-with-acid-so-I-can’t-possibly-eat-a-thing diet. I recommend you avoid it at all costs.” My boss worried and asked, “Are we literally working you to the bone?” A friend of mine went through a similar involuntary weight drop when her daughter had a health scare. I gained all my weight back, as many women do, during pregnancy.

The one diet I remember going on was the cabbage soup diet. Years ago, all the female editors in my department went on it at the same time. Some of them lost fifteen pounds in two weeks and vowed to repeat the experience every year. I became violently ill the second day and vowed to never go on a diet again. And I haven’t. Until now.

When my aunt told me I don’t need a diet, I lied and said I’m concerned only about my health. When my husband told me he thinks my belly is cute, I dismissed him with a wave of the hand. Then he reminded me that when my belly flattens, so will my chest, and I had to admit he was right.  Some women, I realize, don’t have to choose either no curves or all curves, but I do. Genetics, I guess.

I think I have a solution. I’ll put on my bikini and photograph myself head to ribs now. In a few months, with my belly (and also, I fear, my chest) gone, I’ll snap the other half of the picture, ribs to toes. One neat splice and voila! I’ll post my top and bottom together, and then . . . what? Why would I want to do that?

Or maybe I’ll just have a sandwich. All this talk about slicing and dicing is making me hungry.