My Belly Wrinkles are Thanks to You

The other day I was telling my family all about my friend’s belly dancing group and how great this woman looks and how fun I thought it would be to take some classes.

“I think I might take up belly dancing myself,” I told them.

My daughter looked at me with a blank stare. And it really was blank, not all snotty like it will be in a couple more years. She’s still sweet and basically approving of me. Still, she had a look.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.” She returned to her pancakes. Maybe she hoped the whole thing would go away.

“Not nothing. What?”

“Well,” she said, thinking longer before speaking than she usually does. “Do they even take people with wrinkly bellies?”

I smiled and laughed.

I envied her flat little belly–the one that will stay that way until she has her own little puddle of sunshine to point out that, oops, it’s not anymore. I did not tell her that my wrinkly belly has nothing to do with my age or my level of fitness or anything other than the fact that I foolishly mated with a man who is a full foot taller than me and who has an extremely large head. I did not tell this little ingrate that she and her brother each grew so large that I gained almost half my body weight carrying them around for nine months. Didn’t mention that the little suckers were so big and ill-positioned that they had to be literally cut out of my body. And that one day she too may suffer this hideous fate.

I just smiled and laughed.

My belly. Yeah, it’s a little wrinkly. You’re welcome.

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