Menopausel Muffin Tops

Scaling Muffin Top Mountain

I’m really not partial to muffins. In the fantasy land of delicate puff pastry, muffins strike me as a somewhat overweight unattractive stepsister.

Too dense, no decadent sugary frosting on top, no center core of lighter than air chocolate mousse and never any sinful candy sprinkles on top to brighten their appeal.

I really don’t eat muffins but I have one just the same, my very own undeniable and really quite bothersome muffin top. Such an apt name!

It shouldn’t be a threatening or terrible thing, the muffin top. In reality it is a necessary part of the whole. It’s simply a more firm completely cooked portion needed in order to maintain the integrity of the softer lower muffin.

In theory all good and proper in a baked good, not quite as positive when used to describe the doughy reserve popping out of my waistband. Around my midsection I can see no redeeming or useful purpose for this new addition.

I don’t need it in order for my pants stay up. I’ve been lucky enough to have learned basic water safety at an early age and don’t require the use of an inner tube to keep afloat in the family pool. Having long ago invested in a good set of TV trays that rest handsomely across my lap for dinner time viewing, I don’t require a constant version resting midway between my once perky breasts and my abdomen.

In short, I don’t want this muffin top! I’m really not partial to muffins. The muffin top sees things differently and brooks no argument, for better or worse it seems determined to be a permanent and strongly highlighted feature of my new menopausal physique.

Accepting its arrival is Stage 1 in my cycle of grief and denial.

Learning to live with the muffin top will surely be Stage 2!

My aging body has wrought many unwanted changes of late. Unfortunately my paycheck makes no allowances for monthly Botox or filler injections so I grudgingly accept that which I cannot change. Thankfully, I have heard that between modern science and lingerie design there are remedies in place to help combat this latest assault on my ever deflating ego.

I straighten my slumping shoulders, grab the car keys and head resolutely to Wal-Mart, determined to scour the aisles until I find the muffin top maskers I know are out there!

I’ve seen the magazine pictorials promising I will be able to redefine the gap between hip and breast and erase forever the waterlogged hula hoop between the two.

My search is amazingly fruitful and quick. There really are a plethora of solutions to this everywoman nightmare. The shelves host a rainbow of Lycra and nylon infused granny panties that suck you in so tight your belly flattens to premenstrual proportions you haven’t experienced in at least 35 years.

Satisfaction fills my chest and a stupid grin creases both corners of my mouth as I sashay in front of the change room mirror checking myself out from all possible angles in disbelief. I silently compliment myself on my instant weight loss. Who knew it would be this easy?

Purchases in hand I light heartedly head home to the inner sanctum of my own room in order to check myself out again. I will pair my new miracle makers with my favourite jeans. I anticipate the joy, the exhalation I am sure to feel when I see the disappearance of the ballooning belly that I have been agonizing over for months.

As quickly as my mood has soared, it plummets to the darkest depths I can possibly imagine. I have just slipped my favourite Levi’s over my new muffin murderer’s intent on marveling at my new physique.

The mirror doesn’t lie, my belly is unmistakably flattened, but the inner tube that lay around my midsection just hours ago remains. Not where it rested this morning to be sure but noticeably still present.

Below my breast line sits a brand new formation resembling the Rocky Mountains. I have become a four breasted woman!

The granny panties have flattened my abdomen just as promised but the muffin top has won this battle of wills. Refusing to be defeated it has simply migrated to higher ground. Escaping the smothering restrictions of nylon and Lycra, the evil roll has eased itself upward and now rests comfortably just above my rib cage and directly below my breasts making them appear double in size and truly quite massive in proportion.

My belly blaster did its job and in place of yesterday’s rounded Buddha belly, I sport a tush that is flattened and diminished to the shapelessness of a 70 year old man. My hips are narrowed in an otherworldly boyish silhouette but it is my upper body that is altered beyond belief! Eye catching in its sheer scope and size. I am now officially a triangle, an upside down triangle but a triangle nonetheless!

How unfair is life, I don’t even eat muffins. I’m really not partial to them!