I'm naming my belly Sheila

I've tried for years to be at peace with this part of my body. I think I've finally got the answer—and she's a boozy Brit.

I’ve decided to name my belly Sheila.

Sheila is British, though I think her father may be Irish. She’s a few years older than me—mid 50s—drinks too much, eats gobs of cheese, and loves a good treacle tart (“You are what you eat!” she says, then cackles). Every March, she and her sister and two best friends from uni go to Portugal, where she gets smashed nightly, gets a sunburn, and usually ends up shagging an Aussie or two.

Sheila curses like a sailor and tells the filthiest, funniest jokes I’ve ever heard. She loves dogs (unlike me), never forgets a birthday (also unlike me) and always picks up the check (ditto). She calls me either “love” or “c*nty,” depending on how many Merlots she’s had, and most important, she’s always after me to lighten up, have fun, and quit being so hard on myself.

It’s impossible not to like Sheila—which is good, because she’s not going anywhere. And, barring surgical intervention, she’s probably only going to get bigger as I get older, owing to the inevitabilities of aging, genetics, gravity, and the fact that I really don’t want to want to eat like how I imagine Gwyneth Paltrow eats (nothing but greens, lean proteins, healthy fats, and organic berries) for the rest of my days.

In other words, Sheila and I (pronounced “Sheilar-and-I”), aka my belly and I, are in it for the long haul.

Now, I can just hear those of you out there who know me, or have seen pictures of me, saying, Oh shut up, you don’t have a Sheila belly!

And yes, it’s true that I’m very fit, and am basically what you’d call thin. My arms are toned, thanks to regular indoor rock climbing, and my legs, thanks to running, hiking and good genes, are pretty damned spectacular, if I do say so myself.

BUT my question to you is: have you seen me in my underwear? For 99.8% of you, the answer is no. No you have not. If you had, you would know that my midsection is, well, soft and kinda lumpy, with a small but distinct (and squishy) bulge beneath the navel.

(“It feels like pizza dough!” one of my children kindly pointed out when they were six or seven, grabbing a fistful of it. “There was a lot less of it before you came along,” I growled.)

Now, let me just interject here to say that if you are someone who is annoyed by thin women talking about their bodily insecurities, I get it. Truly, I do. Don’t keep reading, because you’ll just be hating me and rolling your eyes the whole time, and that’s no fun for either of us.

But if you’re up for a post about the quest to accept one’s body as it is—something women of all shapes and sizes struggle with—and the role of my new mate Sheila in all this, read on.

The fact is, I have never liked my belly. Eons ago, at a pool party in eighth grade, I remember seeing my classmates in bikinis and wondering why most of their abdomens were long, smooth single planes, whereas mine (concealed in a one-piece) was in two parts—like a snowman or a chunky wasp. I don’t know if it’s because I have a giant uterus or mega-intestines or what, but it’s always been that way—even when I was borderline anorexic in high school, and weighed about 15 pounds less than I do now.

THAT is a whole other story, and it’s about much more than just weight / body image. I’ll save it for another post. But the upshot is: 1.) My family was pretty fat-phobic when I was growing up, my dad in particular 2.) For a couple of years in high school, I worked very hard to get very skinny, and got kind of addicted to the whole thing 3.) It took me a number of years to get to a healthier relationship with food and with my body.

Alas, 4.) I’m still not all the way there. (Is anyone?)

When I feel/see my belly spilling over the waistband of my jeans, or see it pooching out under a fitted dress or top, all these mean, negative thoughts come to mind: You look gross, and old. It’s your fault. You are indulgent. You are lazy. If you ate fewer carbs and sugar and drank less wine, it would go away.

The very fact that I think these things pisses me off, too. I’m a feminist, dammit! I’m healthy and happy and alive for God’s sake, and incredibly grateful for that fact, so why am I being so vain? Moreover, I am not overweight, I eat very healthily for the most part (if not Gwyneth healthy), and I look pretty damned good, so why am I being a whiny bitch? (Feeling bad about feeling bad: Now that is some serious overacheiving woman shit right there!)

I just don’t want to hate my belly anymore. Or hate myself for hating my belly.

Hence, Sheila.

I mean, when your belly is a bawdy, bon vivant British bestie who tells you look fantastic and that you need to stop worrying about things that don’t bloody well matter, what’s to hate, right?

So now, when I look at myself sideways in the mirror and sigh, I make myself think of Sheila rolling her eyes, giving me a playful swat on the knee and saying, “Oh, quit being such a [insert some fun British idiom here]. You look gorgeous, love. And who gives a fuck anyway?” Then she takes a big slug of her wine, kicks back in her chair and says, “Now, did I tell you the one about the Frenchman, the vicar, and the sheep?” She’s snorting with laughter before she even starts the joke, and then I’m laughing too, and all is well.

Sometimes Sheila goes a little tough love on my ass. She wags a finger at me and reminds me of her grandfather, who was blown to pieces by a German mine on his thirtieth birthday, or her aunt, who died of breast cancer at exactly my age. “Think they would choose being alive if it meant having a bit of paunch? You bet your arse they would! Now, shut up and have a biscuit.” (Isn’t it fun how many Britishy things Sheila says? I can’t wait to ride on an elevator with her, or take her to someone’s apartment.)

So far, the Sheila approach to belly acceptance is going smashingly—not so smashingly, however, that I’m going to show you a close up pic.

But here’s a snap of Sheila and me (Sheilar-and-me) on holiday in Mexico last February, goofing around together. We drank a lot of Dos Equis, had quite a few churros, and made fun of the iguanas. It was fabulous.

Be kind to yourselves, my friends. Or, at the very least, give yourself a fun-loving body part pal with a cool accent who will.

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I love writing this newsletter, and am grateful to have a place to share my strange and eclectic brand of writing. I’ve happily blogged for free for years, and will continue to do so. I did, however, recently add a paid subscription option. If you enjoy my writing, and feel like it’s brought value to you in any way, I’d be honored if you’d consider upgrading. My dream is to gradually spend more time writing essays, humor and fiction, and less time doing corporate writing (which currently pays the bills), and every bit helps. BUT no pressure at all! It’s totally voluntary, and you’ll still get all the same content if you stick with the free version. Mostly I just hope you’ll keep reading! xoxox - Jane

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