All Anyone Will Remember About Me Is My Stomach

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Photo via Pixabay

Isn't it bad enough that we have to get old with more wrinkles than a Shar Pei and more grey hair than, well, a greyhound? Even in retirement, the greyhound remains sleek and lithe, if a shade less muscular than in its glorious youth.The human body on the other hand collapses in on itself and forget about any leftover vanity from your younger days. When you hit a certain age, all anyone remembers about you is your dangling and drooping _________ (insert body part here) which nothing short of full body armor will ever camouflage. Hey, I know aging comes with an inevitable loss of elasticity. But, add in a 100 pound weight loss and we are talking an entirely new ball game.

For me, it's all about the stomach. Make that plural...as in stomachs. When I was heavy, my tummy rolls bulged over my waistband like over inflated balloons. Not the fun kind of balloons, like SpongeBob SquarePants or Minnie Mouse. Nope, this was like the old fashioned latex balloons you blew up until they threatened imminent explosion. I went the spandex route which effectively contained the lower stomach roll but was helpless against the determined upper.

With the spandex pulled up to my armpits in a futile attempt at preventing overflow, my upper stomach roll unpleasantly resembled marshmallow fluff. Marshmallow fluff's puffy consistency is a wonder of culinary manufacturing. But, tensions undoubtedly run high at the crucial moment between filling a jar of fluff to maximum capacity and snapping the lid on before it bulges forth and escapes containment. Kind of how I feel when I am sweating stuffing myself into tight jeans and trying to get the zipper up. I somehow overlooked the one piece spandex bodysuit designed to prevent any breakout attempts by hard core body parts. But, that ship has sailed. I have new issues.

I recently lost significant weight and my stomach rolls are history. Great, right? Not so fast. Unfortunately, I had the delusional expectation that my stomach would do its part and spring back to its teenage tautness. But alas, that lazy no good part of me still refuses to cooperate. No amount of George Foreman fat-free grilling or marathon crunch sessions make any difference. My stomach no longer bulges like over inflated balloons. Now, instead it resembles the tragic moment after the balloon pops, when you look on in horror at the sagging remains.

With great reluctance I now accept what seems obvious all along; my drooping, dangling stomach is here to stay. Nothing short of drastic surgical intervention will force my stomach to cooperate. Nothing short of a miracle will see that happen so I am stuck with it. And I must confess, if I could somehow pluck an extra twenty thousand we have laying around in a bank account somewhere without my husband noticing, I would be under the knife right now. But, he's a stickler that way. Always has to be on top of things. We have to save for retirement, be careful with money, blah, blah, blah.

I may have made a preliminary investigative visit to a plastic surgeon.There is the possibility of a payment plan. But, somehow paying for a tummy tuck in 12 easy installments just sounds like trouble.The temptation would be strong to have the doc throw in my bat wing arms for an extra 12 monthly payments or tack on 6 more months for a mini face lift. Before I know it, I would be unrecognizable to everyone but the bank manager. The upside is, with my new incognito image my husband wouldn't be able to track me down for my day of reckoning. And my tummy would finally be ironing board flat!