Hard Hats Required Past This Point: Entering Problem Area

My stomach and I have always had a difficult relationship. It's always been where the fat went first. Even when I was a (cuter than most, dammit, despite my low self-esteem) little kid, I had a belly beyond the normal little-kid belly that sticks out. Some shrill woman allegedly in the know (for instance, those succubi on "What Not to Wear") would deem it a PROBLEM AREA. I never noticed until just now what annoying phrase that really is. A problem area should be somewhere with no sharp edges where you can hug a teddy bear or pet a dog (or punch a heavy bag and scream profanities like Tourette's Syndrome has you by the toe). There should be Mexican spiced cocoa there that doesn't cause dumping syndrome. Cookies with similar magical ingredients wouldn't hurt. (There could also be shots of brandy for the patrons who just want to take their ball and go home--that will keep them there. Get them liquored up, they'll hit the heavy bags, the bar and the gift shop. Maybe I should start a chain of Problem Areas and make a bajillion dollars.)

I just hate my stomach so much. I have always hated it. I remember when I was fifteen years old and it decided quite suddenly to have four big stretch marks on it. That derailed me for quite some time. There was no precedent for their appearance, no weight gain or loss of note, I just woke up one morning and they were there. The universe had scrawled jaggedly across my adolescent skin with a big red permanent Sharpie. WTF was that about? What a load. I already had DDs, acne, glasses thick enough to kill ants in the sun and a perm worse than Victoria Principal's that one season of "Dallas". I think I weighed 150, 155 pounds at the time, maybe even less than that. Before I could even legally operate a motor vehicle, I worshiped at the altar of Vitamin E cream. (Of course, now I could win a stretch-mark contest in the childless division, but I don't feel the need to elaborate any further.)

My stomach is huge and I hate it. I don't even like anyone touching it, ever ever ever. I don't like wearing a shirt that even shows any portion of it--we all know it's there--but out of sight, out of MY mind. I wish I could spend my life in one of the trenchcoats of my '80s Batcaver youth (I even slept in them sometimes, over my pj's, like a security blanket) or in a huge Big and Tall men's hooded sweatshirt, which is like wearing a hug made of fleece. Who gives a rip what size your stomach is when it's covered by such a benevolent, fleecy, oversized hug? This is probably why some bulimics, recovering or otherwise, like big clothes. I am definitely one of these. I want everything too big because it makes me feel smaller. I always sit with a pillow on my lap, too, if I can. I'll use my purse in a pinch, but a pillow is better. Actually, I'll take more than one pillow if I can. I know big clothes don't make you LOOK smaller--no shortage of makeover succubi in the media AND in real life to helpfully point this out, so concerned are they with the appearance of every woman in sight--so I am trying to more balanced in my noggin about some of this.

I wanted a tummy tuck, like, yesterday. I can't wait to get one. I don't care how much it hurts or costs, I'm having one when I get down to whatever weight I get down to. I am not going through all this work and pain and CRAP to still have this THING I despise so thoroughly still attached to the front of me. It feels like a growth that just needs removing. I used to be obsessed with obtaining a breast reduction, and I'd like to have that too when all is said and done, but when the stomach surpassed "the ladies" it became more of a priority to get the ol' tuck. It motivates me as much as anything else.