I have this part of my body that is only akin to a roast dinner with pork belly.
Its all skin and podge, and it sits neatly under my bra and above my little round untoned belly;
like awning for a patio.
I can grab it in a crab claw hand and shake it with humour, and also pure unadulterated rage.
My tummy is a pig, with a baggy bit that curls up when I sit down so my body shape resembles a sloth’s; body and soul. This bit of stomach, or well ribs I guess, I sometimes like to grab and shake and make it speak.
It has a high pitched voice and normally sings things from the musical Les Miserables (24601).
Sometimes I poke it hard and hate myself, and then I eat ryvita with cottage cheese for a week and generally supress the rage, so that the suppression is contained within this part of my body, where I keep it safe and warm in the winter.
It feels like there is a flump attached to me.
Now, people have told me to love this part of my body. What. ‘How can you love that?’ I think on a regular, probably hourly basis. It is the bit I consider to be evil and in rebellious cahoots with my cellulite to commit some kind of mutiny on my mind, that coaxes me into a gym membership I cannot afford. Which I then spend weeks trying to get out of, and really end up paying extra for a personal trainer I hate, who I want to kill through no fault of their own other than they are beautiful, and I want to throw sour cream pringles at them whilst they fall off a building, because I too am a sour pringle.
I constantly look up exercise classes that will keep me both entertained and fit, and convince me that I’m actually having fun rather than having heart palpitations. Groupon is a good one for this, where I look at ballet pilates, pole dancing, or bikram-zumba-karate and think ‘yessss that will be such fun’. No it will not be fun, everyone will be a stick, I will sweat like an ungainly rhino, my face will go bright red and stay that way for 5 hours and the pig ribs will jiggle. Now, I’ve tried gym memberships, exercise classes, clubs, boot camp, DVD’s, YouTube, buying exercise equipment that comes out the box once, buying nice and also expensive exercise clothes to feel both fashionable and fit, fitness apps, diets galore and also a weighted hula hoop that is now modern art in my bedroom.
I hate it. I will say it now, I hate exercise.
I’m impatient and absolutely lazy. If I see no results from the first 10 minutes I’m not interested/I’m not coming back/you cant make me/I am buying maltesers on the way home.
I mean, my pig ribs probably make it easier to sit down. I imagine that stick figures have issues with this and that they have to lay down to bend, like wrapping a present or bending a peperami in half. Not that I judge these beautiful clothes horses,I can definitely eat donuts and they cant. However, these people don’t spend as much of a fortune in underwear to nip, tuck, squeeze and generally make you uncomfortably but semi perfectly silhouetted. Breasts have to be propped up from their gravitational pull with a wire fence guarding the perimeter, bums have to be lifted in magical-pocket-bum-jeans, and deep sea diving breaths have to be taken when trying to get into them. High waisted bikinis are bought to cover up tummy’s created in the pub, and to cover the pig ribs full on swimming costumes have to be bought. But with my chest size and gravity awareness; burrito is not a look I am going for on the beach this summer.
Now, there are obviously all kinds of body types and definitely millions of things girls hate about themselves on a daily basis. Bad skin, cellulite, untoned bums and tums, thighs like tree trunks, bingo wings, that bit under your chin that isn’t a double chin but definitely gains quiet-sag over time so then in photos you have to lift your head and look like the parading dogs at Crufts. These besides saggy boobs, long toes and your two front teeth are but a small portion of the disdain that goes through a woman’s head on a consistent loop. We all have good boob days, or bad skin days. We all want someone else’s body at least 5 times in a day, and boys aren’t exempt from this whole debacle either. Men have equally got these issues, with their combined drama of nonchalance and pretending they don’t have nip problems. And no matter your gender, who you identify as, what your age is or what size loaf of bread you would compare your tummy to, the thoughts reverberate around our brains and prey on our good boob days like the bastards those thoughts are.
So what I am thinking, is that the pig ribs have to be embraced.
In the profound and ever lasting and untrue words of Lady Gaga ‘I was born this way’. Of course I wasn’t, I wasn’t born with pig ribs. I was an excessively skinned baby that had rolls and could have had a career in sumo wrestling. But I grew and those pig ribs didn’t join me in my teenage life, they changed themselves into braces, spots and questionable hairstyles. Pig ribs manifested as its current state mid-way into my twenties, built a house, got a mortgage, a pension and retired comfortably in the warm embrace of the pouch that sticks out between your waistband and bra. I’ll still be on a beach sounding like I have asthma due to the consistent suck of the tum, and my pig ribs will still be singing ‘do you hear the people sing’. But due to my lack of will power, interest in exercise and sheer laziness, I am accepting that paritcular farm yard animal as one of my own.
I am also excepting them as the semi-confident woman I am.
This is me, this is my muffin top, these are my boobs, this is the chipmunk pouch under my chin and these are my pig ribs.
Aren’t they fabulous?
No one can ever have wholly happy body days, not even the best athlete, a Victoria’s secret model (Its got to be less than mine though surely?) or the average Joe or Josephine. But, I’m not willing to make myself unhappy by doing activities and actual sports in order to lessen the ‘rage quota’ for the day. I’m not willing to give up chocolate, wine, bread, crisps, beer, pizza or Babybel, and I am not willing to stigmatize food and drink and make it something I need to have a think about before I commit to, like meeting a man. I want to eat that bowl of pasta, a whole garlic baguette and drink some tequila and then sleep all day and I don’t care who you are or what you think about that. Obviously I’ll try and balance this with a semi-starvation yogurt diet whilst I’m at work, buy expensive cereal bars that are ‘fat free’ but contain 10 bags of sugar per bar, and convince myself that I am just bloated all the time.
But those pig ribs are sticking around. Everyone should love them and I love them.
Pig ribs are beautiful.