bulges

I'm heading to a funeral this morning and need to wear a black dress. In my mind I rifled through my closet, knowing there was only one dress I could wear. And knowing too, that it was too fitted to look good anymore. 

I have a bulge. A pot. Love handles. Gushy skin. Sagging. Drooping. For the first time in my life (except for pregnant bellies of course). 

When I was a teenager I wore a back brace for scoliosis and, encase in plastic and metal 23 hours a day, my middle learned to stay flat. And that stuck with me as I ditched the brace and got older. 

After my first pregnancy my body bounced right back. After my second, not as much. I felt a bit like the Pillsbury dough boy, but it was something I could mask well. 

Not this. 

This is there for all to see and it doesn't seem there's much I can do about it except take a deep breath and deal. 

But I'm not happy about it.