The Flower

Supermodel and I signed up for a weight loss competition.  It's more of an accountability program at our local gym.  Your name goes on a board and remains there as long as you lose one pound a week.  If you don't lose a pound, your name is removed.  Obviously people with more weight to lose will have their name on the board longer and win the prize. [I don't know what the prize is.]  We each have five holiday pounds to lose, so we thought it might motivate us to be more disciplined for the next month or two.  We were weighed last Friday and our weights recorded - privately.

I was shocked.  I think I'm turning into a man because I'm in denial.  Instead of acknowledging that I'd put on a few pounds, I was certain that the gym scale was inaccurate.  Supermodel and I both double-checked our weight at home and have determined that the gym scale adds two pounds.  Whatever.  It's just a point of reference.

This morning marked week one.  We decided we'd do a treadmill workout and sweat off a few ounces before being weighed.  We started walking at a slow speed to warm-up.

I said, "I'm worried.  I ate well yesterday, but I might have overdone the fiber - lentils and brown rice.  Sometimes it can bind me up.  My bathroom routine wasn't normal this morning.  I might not make my pound.  BUT, I weighed myself yesterday [at the gym] and I was one pound lighter.  The rules say you can weigh-in Thursday or Friday.  I'll use yesterday's weight if I fail today.  Do you think that's cheating?"

"No.  I'm worried too.  I ate chili yesterday - a small portion - but something's not right."

We walked and looked straight ahead at the televisions.  I felt my lower abdomen.

Rubbing my stomach, I said, "Look.  I'm bloated.  Even when I carry extra weight, my stomach's relatively flat.  That's totally a bowel movement.  I can't go here though.  The bathroom's in the middle of the gym.  I feel like I have an audience."

Supermodel bent forward and tried to look at my bloated stomach.  I turned towards her, slightly lifted my t-shirt and pulled the top of my shorts down to reveal my belly button and lower abdomen.  I was careful... for a reason.

"Did you get another tattoo?  Is that a tattoo on your stomach?  When did you do that?"

"What?" [I was playing deaf.]

"When did you do that?"

"Huh?"

"When. Did. You. Do. That?" [She made eye contact, enunciated, spoke loudly and mouthed precisely in case I needed to read her lips.]

I lifted my shirt and let her get a good, but quick look.  "I'm not telling."

She grinned and laughed a bit.  She didn't compliment the flower, but didn't condemn me for having it either.  [Reminder:  I live in a VERY conservative area of Utah.  Tattoos aren't a big deal, but here in Mayberry where the worst graffiti I've seen said "DILDO", very few mother's my age have ink.]

"You know what Toddler Child calls this one?  The Special Mommy Flower.  If I'm sitting down, he requests OPEN YOUR FLOWER, which means he wants me to sit-up so he can see the entire thing.  For a while he thought all mom's had a flower on their stomach, so I told him only the special ones do.  He says he wants a Special Mommy Flower when he grows up."  [Nervous laughter.]

Supermodel listened to me babble, and just grinned.  "So, when did you do that?"

"Not telling."

We finished our workout, I never had a BM at the gym, and we both lost a pound.  I'm glad it's Friday.

[Taken myself in my dusty mirror.]