The End of Shame, Part 1 - Body Fat

A friend of mine recently observed, "I love bellies... I love bellies except my own". I think the saddest part of this statement is how well I relate to it. I do love bellies. I love Buddha's belly. I love the shape of that faceless guy from The Big Lebowski opening credit montage - you know him only from the profile of his enormous gut, which he wags victoriously after bowling a strike. My favorite Detroit tummy belongs to Tigers' third base coach Gene Lamont. His pot o' plenty is like a joyous beacon, congratulating a lucky slugger as he makes his way home.

All these big bellies always make me smile. So why do I feel so sad when I glance down upon my abundant abdomen?

It's funny that I've only mentioned men's tubby stomachs, but maybe that's because it's so rare for a woman to display her paunch as prominently. It's tough for us thick ladies to pass as attractive in this society, but I don't think it's much easier for guys to feel good about their girth. I also have to acknowledge that this issue seems far less troublesome to black people, who tend to wear their weight with a lot more pride. Ultimately, I think that self-respect is the key to becoming comely. I generally find miserable people unattractive, so if someone is ashamed of their shape, it follows that they won't look pretty to the rest of us. On the flip side, a happy and confident fatty can be quite dashing. Take it from me - I'm fatter than I've ever been and since I got married a month ago, I've been catching more admiring glances than in the whole rest of my life put together!

So, in the spirit of taking pride in my lipids, I have started referring to my body fat as ranch dressing. Now, as much as I love the taste of ranch dressing, it isn't my favorite form of fat. Cheese is, by far, the winner, but when I think of cheese in the context of a woman's body, I think of a yeast infection. That's not very sexy. Rather, I think that ranch dressing is the most feminine of fats. For one thing, we women love to eat it. Even the most health-conscious, Diet Coke-drinking, only-salad-for-lunch ladies among us eat ranch dressing, though they may always ask for it on the side. Ranch dressing is also quite pretty, with it's thick, buttermilky texture and cheerful flecks of green herbs and black pepper. I also like that it is fluid, that it doesn't coagulate like once-warm butter. I guess I like to think that my body fat is similarly fluid, that I can lose some and gain some, that I can squeeze in my jeans or (if I should ever be so adventurous!) up into a girdle. But mostly, I get excited when I imagine these rolls on my stomach as little sacs of ranchy goodness, because it makes my mouth water, just thinking about that exquisite, tangy flavor.

If I were a sculptor, I would make a ceramic figure on the scale of my twenty-two year old body, from when I was so skinny and frail. Then I would wrap it's belly and thighs and ass with clear glass to make it look like the shape of my thirty-one year old body and I would fill those glass voids with - you guessed it - ranch dressing. Then I'd place my awesome dressing decanter on the dinner table with a huge batch of extra greasy, double deep-fried potatoes and invite all my friends to eat. They could bring their own edible body fat self portraits, too. It would be our potluck celebration of our potbellies, and our true selves.