The Tummy Diaries

Gut

Belly

Abs

Stomach

Tum Tum

Mid Section…

So many different ways to refer to that place between where my chest ends and my hips begin.

In the 20 years since I became aware of my body and its agency, I can honestly say I’ve been able to refer to my middle section by almost all of those monikers.

Between late teenage and my early 20’s I loved the idea that youth and gym activity gave me ‘abs’ (i.e. firm abdominal muscles just shy of the “six pack” designation)

I had a clear view of my lady bits, knees and toes in the shower… a view I took for granted.

These “abs” even made me money.

In an impossibly tiny t-shirt, which was really just a bra with sleeves, my ability to flash those rock hard abs enticed drunk tourists at the Mexican bar I worked at to tip me generously.

But that Mexican restaurant was where I gained my deep love for cheesy shrimp nachos… and after a few years and a little less activity, those rippling abs had turned into a less-defined but still relatively flat: tummy.

It all went rather quickly downhill from there: my journey from tummy to stomach to belly and briefly back to tummy.

There were diets, unhealthy habits, stressful work & that all too familiar ‘spread’ when one lives on nothing but love & cuddles, ice cream and Saturday night pizzas.

Even so, I’ve never really been ill at ease with what my mother often refers to as my ‘midriff’ …

That is until recently.

Major medical conditions, bed rest and a deep affection for gin and red wine have created a rather strange phenomenon:

I cannot see my lady bits in the shower anymore and my toes are just barely visible when I look straight down to where the soap curls around my ankles.

My high waisted jeans are all that create the illusion of a discernible waist and often cut into my skin before too long.

Yes, it is official: my belly has turned to a gut.

With gym rats, personal trainers and CrossFit junkies among my closest and dearest friends, it makes for rather uncomfortable chat on the sunloungers at the beach… or rather it should.

There are indeed moments when I long for my youthful abs.

And would happily settle for that smooth but still flat ‘tummy’ I sported in my 30’s.

But as I hold the soft, brown welcoming flesh and play hide and seek with my belly button, I can’t help but smile and think of all the good things this belly contains and represents.

First, I’m a good cook.

In fact, food is my love language. If we are ‘new friends’ and I offer to cook you curry, or risotto or slow grilled venison, be assured I will love you for life.

I’ve made a life in a place that calls fried battered cod, mushy peas and Scotch eggs the height of culinary fashion so it stands to reason that I often cook for myself from scratch to satisfy a Caribbean palette.

With fresh herbs, chillies that strain the edges of the Scoville scale, fatty butter and happy, brightly coloured vegetables, meals are just shy of an orgasmic event… and less so a simple requirement to give the body fuel.

So the first thing I’m thankful for: is that my belly contains delicious things. Creamy soups and spicy curries. Apple crumble with ice cream and hot caramel and my mama’s rice pudding when I go home for the comfort and safety of my family’s bosom.

I can scarcely be sorry to have stretched my tummy a bit to accommodate such treasures.

Then, there is the biological and psychological connection between the stomach and the heart:

It is where I laugh from;

Where I grip tightest when pain and grief envelop me and rip blood-curdling wails from my mouth.

It is the place I instinctively shield as I roll into the shape of a comma, when my lover removes their protective embrace in bed.

I live in a world of manic contrasts so my fiery, caustic tongue is easily counterbalanced by the soft fleshy centre always in need of protection.

I refuse to be sorry that I’m still brave enough to be vulnerable and that my belly plays such a literal, physical part of that.

Before it became a gut, my tummy clenched instinctively to brace for the force of an excited toddler’s kick. It held it’s own in mock wrestling matches with three feral godsons. It helped my broken back do the work of rolling around with dogs and keeping me astride naughty horses. When the strength of other muscle groups fail me, the long forgotten abs can still be pressed into service at a Pilates class to get my tired and sore shoulders off the mat.

I cannot be upset that despite its appearance, my gut remembers what I taught the muscles beneath it just over ten years ago.

As my body transitioned from having a belly to a gut, that soft fleshy centre was the place my lovers stroked with fingertips and palms.

The place they peacefully fell asleep when their bodies could love me no longer.

The belly button was where their tears found solace in a world intolerant of their expressed vulnerability.

The place they whispered secrets to no one in particular, while we lay naked in the predawn mist.

Secrets I will never tell.

The place nephews & nieces took refuge when they became fretful at bedtime where my thighs made a lap and my tummy a pillow.

I will never be sorry for having a body that welcomes, entices, heals, soothes and consoles.

Oddly enough the one thing this belly has never done is bear a child to term.

It was never something I wanted… until now.

So perhaps that is why I’m really ok with my tummy/belly/gut/stomach.

Because as I go about my day, finding interesting ways to camouflage it while still accentuating the legs and breasts of which I am still so very proud;

I imagine what it would be like to have a gut on purpose. Because it is carrying a baby.

I imagine the softness giving way to taught skin pulled tight with a tiny human ready to be born. I imagine stretch marks I will furiously ply with moisturiser and prayer.

I’m an over achiever, so naturally I want to be “Fit at 40” and “Fabulous at 50”.

But not in that surgically enhanced “I don’t eat carbs”, “I exist to exercise” “I’m no fun at parties” kind of way. I want my Fit & Fabulous to be confident, flawed, healthy, authentic, fun, textured and beautifully flavoured all at once.

So back to CrossFit I go and perhaps I’ll save the creamy risotto and South African red wine for special occasions only.

But for now, I’ve made peace with this belly. It isn’t convenient when shopping for clothes. But it represents so much of what I celebrate in life. I refuse to curse it because it wouldn’t find it’s way onto the cover of a magazine.

My belly likes good wine, and the large, calloused hands of the person who loves me … so tonight my belly and those hands are going on a date where we will fill it with creamy truffle mash, shiitake mushrooms and venison.

Celebrate the parts of your body that bring you joy; in all their flawed, imperfect and desirable ways. Together they are more than the sum of their parts.

If you’d like to make Katrina’s belly happy, follow her on Twitter @kat_isha with recipes or crossfit workouts. Both bring her tummy joy.