Love Letter to Muffin Tops

Dear Muffin Top,

For you I dedicate a listicle of apologies.

First, I am sorry I call you muffin top. I find it cuter, somehow, than love handles, but I can resort back to the latter if you fancy that more. I could, also, just call you hips.

I’m sorry I sometimes squeeze and grab you and inspect you with disgust. I will fold onto myself and trace the arcs and the curls you make, apprehensively sliding my finger across the hills morphed onto my body.

I’m sorry I often wish you were not there. You are skin and flesh and blood and you help me take up space in a world that belongs to me, though I often try to make myself smaller and pretend I am not there.

I’m sorry we erase you out of magazines. Your outlines are foreign to us now. You dawn the bodies of the forgotten women. We, women of the fringe, are sisters to you.

I’m sorry you make me feel unsexy. In Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, it is mostly because of you that Venus is synonymous with desire, with beauty, and with womanhood. I am trying to picture her in a pair of tight jeans, and there it is. You, beautiful muffin top. Shining.

I have a hard time with you most, muffin top, because it is you that swells and shrinks at the first change in my mood, in my hunger, in the season. Like the ocean, your tides come and go, though you have always made your presence on my shores.

Muffin top, I can’t quite mouth the words I love you. I can’t promise you I’ll ever get there. But I will try my hardest to not be ashamed of you. Tomorrow, as the sun shines a little brighter, I will make the effort to sway from side to side with more determination, showing you off a little more, announcing to the world that you, muffin top, are probably here to stay, and you are soft and supple and bouncy and fun and sexy and quirky. And you are me.