I’ve got a mummy tummy. I swear some days I look like I’m still six months pregnant.
There’s something about this flabby, cottage-cheese cumberbund which makes me feel like I’ve unwittingly boarded an express train to middle-aged land – my mummy lump and me like to enjoy the finer things in life, a good pillow, a decent TV movie, wine that costs over $10 a bottle…
Maybe I’m also feeling more senior these days because my desire to complain about things is at an all-time high. Before I was a parent, I would have been concerned by a rise in alcohol prices – now my blood simmers at the state of local parks, littering, pushy people, noisy neighbours, loud teenagers… I wrote my first Letter to the Editor yesterday complaining about Melbourne’s public transport ticketing system, is this the beginning of middle-aged derangement, or is this simply parenthood?
It's rough when you feel like your body has changed forever. I’ve started back at the gym in the hope of stopping my mummy tummy from expanding into a granny fanny, I have to draw the line somewhere. Let's face it, it’s hard to feel like an attractive member of society when you have yoghurt smeared down your top, your track pants are slipping down to reveal your bum crack, and your hair is greasy and pulled back into a ponytail because you haven’t been able to squeeze in a shower in three days.
I’ve decided there is only one thing left to do - I am going to become the Forrest Gump of mothers (Forrest Mum? Mummy Gump?). I am going to run. Not very far, and not enough to really hurt, but enough to keep the middle-aged wolves from nipping at my 30-something heels. I also have a wedding to go to in one month’s time - mummy tummy be gone, Forrest wants to go to the wedding. I will keep you posted…
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