As I write this, we are five days into January 2025. The world is awash with good intentions, teetotal advocates, and cut-price gym memberships. If you are anything like me, you will have gained some weight in the past month, or, at least, you will have done if you were doing Christmas properly. If you are one of those smug aberrations who managed to moderate your indulgences over Christmas through willpower and healthy coping mechanisms, I respect you, but we will never be friends.
But now, the fun times are over, the decorations have come down, and the festive debt is owed. It’s time to put right the damage you have done to your liver and your cholesterol levels. Or is it? I gave myself full permission to indulge over December and to not worry about either my calorie consumption or how much weight I gained, safe in the knowledge I would sort it all out come January. So, I ate. Boy, did I eat.
My muscles, such as they were, started to gently atrophy, my body became squishier, and my waistline started to expand. None of it mattered to me because it was all temporary. I would right all wrongs in just a few weeks, but now that January is here, I have found myself rethinking my plan because, dear reader, I have become rather fond of my belly.
No, I didn’t see this one coming either. But by creating a guilt-free window in which to gain weight without judging myself, I came to view my body, not through the lens of media messaging, but through my own eyes – and I really like my belly, goddamnit! I noticed myself stroking and patting it, like pregnant women do. I found it very comforting to have this gelatinous mound to cradle from time to time. I’ve never been really thin, but this is the first time I can recall having a proper gut, and I really like it.
It’s soft and round, with delicate, plump folds that I like to cup with my hands as I fall asleep. If my belly was a pillow, it would be described as “plush” and “luxurious”. I don’t even think it is unpleasant to look at. It swells and undulates like a rich custard pudding. I think my belly is quite beautiful, and yet, if I were to post a picture of it online, I suspect much of the world would violently disagree.
We are now living in a post Ozempic world, where injectable, highly effective diet drugs are a mere click away. The whole of Hollywood seems to be shrinking before our very eyes, and it’s not just for celebrities anymore. I know so many people who are taking semaglutide-based drugs to lose weight, hell, I even tried it myself.
I lost a lot of weight taking Wegovy, but I truly missed eating. I could bust my gut within a couple of months if I start taking it again, but what is going to happen to the hard-earned goals of the body positivity movement now thinness is injectable?
The whole thing has got me thinking about our relationship with our bellies and the amount of shame they provoke. I like mine! How can something that feels so gloriously tender also be regarded as grotesque?
Of all our body parts, the belly comes in for particular scrutiny. Beer bellies, muffin tops, love handles, and the middle-aged spread, the belly, or lack thereof, have become markers of youth, health, and desirability. If you want to know just how strong this narrative is, ask yourself, if you were allowed to choose your belly, would you go for a big, wobbly one? Thought not.
Doctors warn us about abdominal fat more than any other kind of fat, and while I wouldn’t want to contradict their concerns, it is worth pointing out that they aren’t asking anyone to maintain a 22-inch waist with washboard abs. Doctors would just like us to try and keep their waist measurement to less than half their height to reduce the risk of potential health problems.
But that isn’t the message that is pushed at us when it comes to achieving the “ideal” belly type by the diet, beauty, and wellness industries. It’s all about being “shredded”, “ripped”, and “buffed”. No GP has ever asked me to become shredded, they would just like me to try and eat slightly less cheese.
And yet, there are “belly blasting” exercise classes you can sign up for, shapewear you can buy, teas you can drink, and dubious “gut slimming” pills you can buy online. For the record, no herbal supplement or tea will make your stomach smaller. Wherever you look, there is a whole lot of stomach shaming going on. Fat bottoms are still all the rage, so why do we hate our paunches so much?
I suspect one of the reasons the belly has become the site of so much anxiety is because it gets bigger as we age. It’s almost inevitable – the belly is going to get all of us at some point. Very few of us have the same waistline we did at 18. An expanding waistline is synonymous with getting older and so we attack it with the same ferocity with which we fight wrinkles, grey hair, and liver spots.
The abdomen is also the hardest area to slim down and firm up in the gym, which is why muscle definition in this area, or the “six-pack”, is so prized as a signifier of the body beautiful. It takes a lot of hard work, discipline, and self-denial to achieve that, whereas a pot belly is acquired primarily through leisure and pleasure. As a result, we can be very judgemental about a belly, viewing it as evidence of a lazy, slothful existence.
But perhaps we need to start reframing this. Certainly, until quite recently in our collective history, the “ideal” body for a woman, at least, was a soft and squidgy one. Look at any painting by Rubens or Renoir and you will see pot bellies aplenty. To have some meat on your bones was a sign of wealth and luxury. It meant you could afford to eat and sit down a lot, two pastimes I excel at.
Pendulous pillows of flesh were also regarded as symbols of femininity and fertility. In Classical art, Aphrodite herself is universally depicted as having some junk in the trunk because fat on a woman was a thing of beauty. No self-respecting artist would have dared to depict the goddess of love as a size zero. She had some cushion for the pushing, and so do I.
I also like the idea of viewing a little belly as a sign of voluptuousness and pleasure. It speaks of indulgence and joy, of shared meals, and fun times. Mine was acquired because I thoroughly enjoyed myself. When I lose weight and firm up, it might look good, but it all made me miserable.
I know it is not healthy to be severely overweight and I wouldn’t want anyone to think I am glorifying obesity or playing down the dangers it poses. But does that mean we have to so aggressively reject anything less than a rippling six pack? What’s wrong with a little gut? So, your belly sticks out over your jeans or floats when you get in the bath? So what? Isn’t it also beautifully curvaceous? Didn’t you also have a lot of fun growing it? I know I did.
So, let’s make 2025 the year of the belly – if you have the guts for it.
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