ABS

I don’t know whose big idea it was to make a lumpy hard vertical stack of unseen muscles in the middle of our bipedal bodies into such a paragon of desirability, but I have just about had it with the whole “ab” thing.

Like many things that popular culture keeps throwing in my face, I have a simple solution to end this madness, globally. But since I am not yet Queen, I cannot change everything that is wrong with the world. (You can see my simple everyday solutions recurring throughout this blogsite; search keywords When I Am Queen. See if you agree with me on any of them. Let me know. Maybe we can start something. )

Now back to these anti-AB assaults. Stomachs, everywhere! They came spilling out of swim suits and sundresses, in every color, from every TV channel all through the joyous season of the holidays. It got so bad New Year’s Day, I had to just say something about it. Perky blondes and shiny men in tight shorts yelling at me to buy their torturous devices called Ab Lounge…Ab Dolly….AB Blaster…Ab Kill This and Ab Die That.

And this “six pack” business, what is THAT? Is it the end all of human physical perfection to be likened to a machine filled collection of stupefying brews in Alzheimer’s-producing aluminum cans secured with never-to-dissolve-into-the-earth plastic rings? That doesn’t sound pretty, so why is that the chosen euphemism for the lumpy hard vertical stack of unseen muscles? Six pack? Not even a physiological possibility, and when you deal with me, you gotta get the words right. Get the name of your object d’obsesseion right. I can’t help you if we can’t name the beast.

One more question: what are we really talking about anyway when we say “ABS”? With all this text-talk in letters instead of sentences, this ABS is not even a word: what the hell are ABS? How many ABS do you get? Is it my one abdomen what you mean? What is that, my belly? My pooch, my bowling ball, my gut, my gelatinous mass, my blub, my unworthy mound—is that what we’re talking about?

Most women universally actually use the word “hate” when referring to their mid-sections. I was one of them. And when this all came about with the whole ABS thing it rocked me back to my college days (Salt Lake City, 1974) and man, I had to get my head out of that place but quick. Here’s what I did.

I have redefined it so that every time I hear somebody promising stronger ABS, it means something to me that is, well, meaningful. Here it is.

A is for autonomy. A woman who has married five times in the hope of a fusion of mind, body and soul, I came to the notion of autonomy in mid life. It isn’t that I don’t need other people nor am I unwilling to ask for help when I need it. Accepting help requires a certain amount of strength and it also makes the people who can do something for you to feel really good about themselves. I have been on the receiving end of some remarkable grace from a good many people, for quite some time. This year, I want to realize a phrase I have used for some time, and make it manifest: you can be a whole lot more of a humanitarian when you are stinking rich than broke with good intentions. SO for me, this year, A is for AUTONOMY. Fill up my coffers and I will share as I see fit.

B is for bravery. That may seem odd coming from me because I hardly have a reputation as a shrinking violet. I have surely been bold, but that is not the same as brave. Bravery in my world isn’t about conquering enemies; bravery is about being honest with the people I love who are really messing up their own lives and the lives of people I care about. SO for me, B is for BRAVERY. Tell them the truth and let them take it from there.

S is for sustenance. I have not been hungry, really, for any length of time in my life. Oh, sure, there was a time or two when my own decisions left me temporarily without lunch money. Most times this was because I chose to leave a bad situation knowing it would cost me, but believing that freedom at any price is a bargain. And I have, like my entire generation, lost a lot of years of joy because of the obsession with weight, what it means about who I am, how I should feel about myself, what I can wear, how I apologize for myself and criticize others, in a blanket judgment call that obfuscates all other parameters of character. This is nonsense.

Autonomy, bravery and sustenance, there are the means by which we nourish and strengthen ourselves, inside and outside, mind, body and soul. That really is nobody’s call but my own. How I strengthen my ABS is entirely up to me.

The common thinking that if you’ve got flat abs, you’re a hero and pouchy- bellied people are lazy with no self esteem--- what a crock all that is, and I am so over it.
I want to live a well nourished life of joy, confidence, and fulfillment.

And I want a damn bellyful.