What a Drag it is Getting Old - My Stomach

"No, I'm not pregnant, thank you," I said.

You would think this would be enough to shut people up, but no, they keep talking. 

"Oh, are you sure you're not pregnant?
 
Like who the hell are you asking me these questions?  Complete strangers or Asian woman who work in the salons in New York, that's who.

"No, really, I'm not." 

"Because if you are, then we may need to adjust the treatment."


The treatment is a manicure.

 "No."  With an implied, "Shut up!"

"Well, ok, but may I suggest a bit of diet and exercise?"

"No, you cannot!" With an implied, "Fuck you!"

"Well, I do suggest you do something about that stomach.  It looks bad."

This is where I became a human tornado in the salon letting everyone know what I think.  I then realized that everyone was now looking at my stomach.  I left the salon and went to anther one.

"Pick color."

I pick my color and sit down.

"So, when you due?"

This is not my worse nightmare.  It is something that actually happened. 

Here's the scoop for those of you that don't know what I look like or haven't seen me in a long while.  I'm not fat anywhere on my body, except my stomach.  I still run, and run well.  I aim for twenty-five miles a week and five days a week at yoga.  I watch my diet.  In Milwaukee, I could be a model.  In NYC, I'm told I need to do something about it. 

After having my daughter, my muscles got pushed out, and have not gone back.  Please note, I only gained 23lbs while I was pregnant and ran two marathons.  I did spinning class until the day I delivered.  I have tried everything I could to get my stomach muscles back -- diet, exercise, Biggest Loser Camp for a week, but nothing really worked.  I finally couldn't take the comments any longer and I went to see a highly recommended plastic surgeon who was located between Park and 5th Avenues in the high 60's.  He was a religious Jew, who wore a yarmulke and a prayer shawl under his doctor's coat.  He didn't look me in the eye.  I wasn't there for work on my eyes, so that didn't really matter to me. 

"Your muscles didn't just move apart vertically in the middle, like most women.  Yours moved apart horizontally also, like a mesh fence being pulled apart.  This happens more often in women with your body type who have their first child in their 40's,"  he said.

Lovely.  But what to do about it?

For me, nothing.

The surgery would be two and a half hours if everything went well.  However, because I have the blood clotting disorder Factor V Leiden, unnecessary surgery is not an option.

"You could die on the table.  It is not worth it," the doctor told me. 

"I totally agree.  I'm not that vain that I want to look great in my coffin.  I have a 3.5 year old daughter than I need to be here for.  But what do I tell these nasty people?"

"Tell them to screw themselves!" he said.

I busted out laughing. I wasn't expecting that comment from a man wearing a yarmulke and a prayer shawl.

But really, what do I do now?