Dear Unwanted Abdominal Flap That Emerged After My Childbirth,
Let’s get straight to the point—I really can’t stand you. Honestly, I’m at a loss for what to even call you. Is it a “flap,” a “shelf,” or something entirely more clinical? Regardless, I know one thing for sure: you are nothing but a nuisance. In fact, you might even be worse than that—at least my other body parts didn’t just surprise me one day by showing up as an awkward bulge.
I still remember the moment I first encountered you after my C-section. My fingers tentatively explored the unfamiliar landscape of my lower abdomen. “Wow, that incision looks quite swollen,” I thought, foolishly hoping that once healed, things would look better. Ha! Little did I know.
My baby has long since graduated from being an infant, yet you’re still here, lounging around like a not-so-welcome guest. I’ve attempted to embrace you, but each time I have to adjust you into my underwear or deal with you like an awkward third breast, I’m reminded of how much I dislike your presence. I’ve read countless articles about positive body image, but the only uplift I’m considering involves a visit to a plastic surgeon to fix this unfortunate situation.
Sure, I didn’t look like a supermodel before your arrival, but I certainly didn’t need your help to make my post-baby body look worse. Stretch marks can hide under clothing, but not you. Oh no, you’ve made it your mission to be the center of attention. When I wear my go-to yoga pants, it feels like I’m also sporting a neon sign pointing right at that awkward, Lycra-clad bulge. I constantly pull at my shirt, worried that people are whispering, “Was that a camel toe?”
To make matters worse, you’ve settled in a place where I can’t even suck you in. I’ve wasted a fortune on uncomfortable shapewear, and even when you’re somewhat contained, I know you’re just waiting to spill out and remind me of your existence—like a beer belly spilling over a too-tight belt.
And let’s talk about grooming down there. Having to lift you while shaving feels utterly ridiculous, like trying to polish a rock. Plus, you’re oddly numb, which just makes the entire situation creepier. The only silver lining? It’s less painful when I accidentally zip you up in my jeans.
In short, I’m over this. Nobody warned me about your unexpected arrival, and you definitely weren’t invited to stay. You’re like that uninvited guest who overstays their welcome, and I can’t seem to work you off with exercise or guilt trips. So for now, I’ll keep hunting for longer shirts to cover you up. But believe me, if I ever come into a windfall, I’ll be racing to the nearest plastic surgeon to see you removed swiftly and without mercy.
So, consider yourself warned—I might just go buy a lottery ticket or two.
With absolutely no affection,
Jamie
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