Tonight some trusty Achates will surround me and I feel this overwhelming desire to perform some type of tribal ceremonial farewell to my unscathed, untouched abdominal region. This solemn ritual would have to include rambunctious chanting whilst they circle my bed as if I were a spiritual bonfire and each person in turn will have to admire and pay homage to my stomach.
It is in many ways ironic that I am presently mourning the upcoming loss of my “flawless” midriff. I have embellished and misrepresented this area of my body, treating it now as if it were my defining physical feature. I did, in fact, spend the majority of my teenage years moaning and lamenting over its size, lack of muscle or pastiness. Before a party, I admit to adopting a Bridget Jones’ approach and squeezing into “Ultimate Magic Support Waist Cinchers”. On the beach, I was often the girl who quickly removed her sarong, hid her flab with her arms and sprinted into the sea in an attempt to avoid onlookers. However, I currently waste more time agonising about my abdomen and browsing vintage or fashionable high-waisted swimwear than struggling with my immobility or the risks of my surgery! Although there is a large part of me that is disgusted by my superficial obsession and believes that grounding is necessary, would it be better to be permanently thinking about the most serious and pressing issue of the present, surgery? It is, by all means, a waste of a waist.