As I stood in front of our bathroom mirror readying myself for a much needed shower, I realized that my ass had grown. Then I turned sideways and realized that my belly had doubled in size compared to what it was just three weeks ago. And my boobs? My boobs are ridiculously stupid looking. They belong in a freak show. I can’t look at them for very long. I’m afraid I’ll go blind without the proper eyewear.
Overall, I look like one of those toys I had as a kid, the ones that came in a clear plastic package. They looked like small, brightly colored erasers. I had a turtle and a alligator at one point. When you submerged in water – a sink, whatever – a few hours later they grew to be like 10 times their original size. (Do they still make those things? I have no idea what they were called but I loved them. I loved their final state: big and floppy, plump and slimy much like the way I feel today. I would make an excellent mold for round two, the adult version.)
And that tattoo I got when I was 18 is now twice its original size. You know, the one that my father once pointed to and said, “You do realize that when you get pregnant, that pretty little design is going to turn into a giant flower garden, right?”
To which I replied, “Dad, gross, I’m never, ever going to have kids. Pregnancy is for wankers.”
And the piercing I have above my bellybutton, the one that I used to play with merrily, show off when I was swimming, wear with pride, is now screaming to hold it all together. It looks down at the tattoo as if to say, “Dude, hang in there, this can’t possibly get any worse.”
Oh, but it can little bellybutton ring. It can.
I worry that my husband is going to start asking we keep the lights low after all. The same husband who bitches and moans at me daily because I force him to live in the dark. (I don’t like bright lights unless it’s sunshine. Otherwise, it’s just candlelight and 40 watt bulbs and they can’t be overhead.) When he arrives home from work at the end of the day the first thing he does is flip on every light in the house and it’s kind of cute.
My midsection is not.
Had I known all of this – all of this good stuff that takes place when you grow the hell up – I would have done things a little differently. I wouldn’t have wasted so much time drinking and eating poorly, consequently gaining weight, and therefore beating the hell out of my body. I wouldn’t have ignored my ass for so long. And I certainly wouldn’t have gotten that bloody tattoo around my bellybutton.
Had I known. Had I known.
Let’s just say that I would have done things a little differently.
Edited to add: Wow, this was one of my most charming posts to date. I’m sorry, Internet. It’s now another day and I’m feeling a little better. But I haven’t actually showered yet.