Gut Punch

It arrived slowly, and then all at once: The gut.

My gut, specifically. An increasingly round belly that hung uncomfortably forward of my waistline. Yikes, I thought to myself, looking in the mirror a couple weeks ago. When did this happen?

It was startling because, well, I’ve had the incredible good luck of being effortlessly skinny my entire life. No matter what I ate or how much I did (or didn’t) exercise, my weight hardly ever shifted. I chalked it up to a quirk of metabolism, or a strangely positive outcome of my Crohn’s Disease.

Despite having no business thinking about weight or fat, some years ago I became keenly interested in the discourse around body positivity (and, later, body neutrality). I followed the influencers fighting fatphobia, and cheered them on from the social media sidelines. I read the books (notably, everything by Aubrey Gordon) and listened to the podcasts.

In short, I became an unlikely advocate for body acceptance. When friends or partners dared to voice a negative thought about their body, or a budding desire to diet, I’d jump into offense: Don’t you know that diets are scientifically-proven to be basically impossible to maintain in the long-run? Why waste your precious time and energy on something that’s doomed to fail? Just accept your body as it is!

Yes, I know, a bit insufferable coming from me, miss skinny-mini herself.

But I truly believed in what I was preaching. Diets are, in fact, mostly a fool’s errand, tempting as they may be. Plus, my personal sexual attractions weren’t limited to skinny people. When gay guys complained about being too fat, I wanted to scream, But you’re SO sexy! Your body is not a problem!!! I love the parts that you hate!

This was all well and good until I had to start accepting my own body, even as it took on a shape I did not love.

And so, we return to the gut. Or as Italians call it, la pancia (or as my boyfriend lovingly started calling mine, la pancina). It really did seem to arrive out of nowhere. For months here in Italy, I’ve been frolicking from restaurant to pastry shop to gelateria with nary a noticeable shift in my body.

Until a few weeks ago, when I stepped out of the shower and stared in disbelief at the image in the mirror. When did that get here? I thought as I inspected my slightly-larger belly. Despite years of preaching to the contrary, all of the cliché ideas came to mind: Should I adjust my diet? Should I exercise more?? Should I cut down on carbs???

A mix of shame and disappointment swirled in my mind. All it took for me to completely abandon my values was a little pancina.

Shortly after this realization, I went on a long weekend hiking trip with my usual group of gays. These tend to be thoroughly-photographed affairs, owing not only to the spectacular scenery, but also the desire to capture everyone’s smiling faces together.

As photos arrived in the group chat each afternoon, I stared in silent horror at how I looked on screen. Was it the wide angle lens doing its dirty deeds, or was I really that much more noticeably fat? Maybe it was the backpack’s tight waist-belt squeezing my midsection and exaggerating my belly.

Either way, in the following days I made sure to suck it in during posed group photos, to at least minimize the effect. Cue, more shame. Who had I become?

When I returned home to Milan, I shared my anxieties with my boyfriend. In his sweet way, he reassured me that I was still sexy as ever, and gave my belly its cute little nickname. I rolled my eyes at all of it.

But maybe he has a point. For all these years, I’ve been preaching that fat is not bad, that it is not to be feared. That bodies shift and change and we need not feel shame. That diets are pointless, and exercise should only be a path to joy, not weight loss.

Maybe it’s time I take my own advice. Easier said than done.

Did this article resonate with you? Be a finocchio’s best friend! Grab my post on Instagram and reshare it to your stories.

This week, I leave you with a photo from my marvelous (truly, breathtaking!) hiking trip at the beginning of June.