pooch peace

I was leaning over to pull on my socks the other day when I glimpsed it: my tummy and the slight bump I lovingly refer to as “The Pooch.” This pooch has been with me since day one, a hereditary chunk of skin specially designed for all the women on my mom’s side of the family, myself included.

Even in childhood pictures in which I’m as young as two or three, the pooch is evident. And the pooch is present in those pre-adolescent photos when the transcendence to womanhood was still masked by an uncurvy tom-boy frame. And today, at my body’s set point, it’s healthy place of weight and proportion, the pooch protrudes ever so slightly.

Over the years, I’ve crunched it, coaxed it, sucked it in, covered it, hid it, hated it. But then I was pulling my socks on and happened to see the pooch, scrunched and folded in all its poochy glory. And you know what I did? I smiled.

Smiled at this part of my body that makes me curvy and unique. Smiled because I had come to understand that beauty isn’t about cultural ideals, societal pressure and airbrushed magazine covers. Smiled because I’d finally made peace with the pooch and called it beautiful.