The Most Dreaded Comment Ever

What's the worst thing you can imagine someone saying to you about your appearance? In my mind, there are two. And in the last year they have both happened to me. The first one happened last summer, when a younger man told me that he thought I was 40, and appeared older than my six-month-older husband. The second happened just last week, and it sent me into such a tailspin that I've been unable to do anything, even blog. A well-meaning friend at a playgroup asked me if I was pregnant. I was wearing jeans and a tank with a cardigan, and I guess I wasn't sucking my stomach in as usual. I'd let down my guard. My friend approached me, and asked, in the sweetest way possible, if I was expecting another baby. She was horrified when she found out I wasn't, even though I tried to make her feel better about it. I was reeling, and have been ever since. She claims that, since I am so thin, she had never seen any sign of a tummy on me. She's right: I am thin. And I have a tummy. I've had it since Eva was born, and I am now convinced that only strenous exercise will help me get rid of it. Sure, just in the last month or two, I've been carrying around an extra 5 pounds, but I still haven't cracked 100, and I wanted a little bit of extra weight. It makes my face look better and more youthful. But most of it seems to have gone to my tummy. The fact that I had two c-sections, in quick succession, hasn't helped. As another friend pointed out, my stomach muscles are shot. So whatever the reason, here I am stuck with a belly that spills out of my jeans, shows underneath all my clothing, and makes me feel lumpy and dumpy. I am afraid to measure what my stomach is, without sucking it in. I'm afraid of the real truth that number will reveal. But I need to find out what it is, and do something about it, and soon. My self-esteem depends on it.