How I Learnt to Embrace My Mom Bod

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How I Learnt to Embrace My Mom Bod

Illustration: Sushant Ahire

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s my husband watches me squeeze myself into my skinny jeans with the determination of a high-altitude climber, he shoots me a knowing smirk. He knows that the jeans have become a tad too tight, but I will eventually get into them, thanks to Lycra. He doesn’t get why it’s a big deal that I get into these jeans. He’s always had a tummy and made peace with it a long time ago, but I, on the other hand, have always been fit and skinny. So this slow descent into comfortable, middle-aged flabbiness confounds me.

Ever since I entered my thirties and was done with bearing children, I have been determined to maintain the same weight that I was when I was in my twenties, but the damn scale is a treacherous beast. It keeps telling me that I weigh only a kilo more than I did in college, while my clothes quietly insist that the scale is delusional. The forties have been the worst because I am too young to give up and decide to age gracefully, yet I mysteriously curve in places that I shouldn’t and have flattened out in places where I am supposed to curve. Everything on my body seems to have moved three inches lower. It a conundrum deeper than the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle, and I sometimes wonder if this constant struggle to keep all my curves in their rightful place is worth it.

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