I exposed my stomach the other day, and not accidently.
For ten years I have taken every precaution to hide my stomach. I had an agreement that when it looked a certain way I would let it see the sun again. But for ten years my ribs or curves or pesky belly-button hair has broken the terms of this agreement.
The other day when I went swimming in my sports bra, it was not because my torso took on an eerily Halle Berry quality. In fact, I weigh more this year than ever before, and the bulk of that weight seems to have manifested in my gut (a very unfortunate predicament for a 27-year-old who has been married for 5-years and has the eager attention of countless eyes on her baby-growing parts).
And so it was time. It was time to remove a cloak and attempt to debunk this myth that anything less than perfect must be hidden, or that there is perfection because anything less is never shared and seen.
It was difficult to so nakedly expose my imperfection; to take that imagined blow to my image. In fact, I regret it. But I hope to do it again.
