The Pudge Did Not Budge

My present self continues to labor at self-improvement, now deemed “optimization.”

Particularly those protocols concerning post-menopausal persistent midriff pudge.

PMPMP, because the palindrome makes it sound friendly, not like the bane of my vain existence.

I frame this as if I were an impartial observer, rather than thick as thieves with Present Jean and Future Jean. I cling to plausible deniability, though it does nothing to hide the PMPMP.

Present Jean is getting antsy. Isn’t there some way to cash in early on these protocols? Like borrowing from a 401(k)?

Future Jean, presumably, has already collected. She has self-assurance, ease and flow, grace, supreme fitness, dance prowess, a vibrant social life, and success as Pinkerton. Or rather, fame. Let’s not pretend I’m above that.

She also has the resources to fuel this high-octane life.

Present Jean has the to-do list.

For a while I chased every implausible influencer pitch for instant results: pink Himalayan salt, pink Jell-O, and other pink things apparently withholding the secret of abdominal transformation. I knew better, but punished my digestion in pursuit of a quick fix.

Nothing worked.

Okay, then. The long-term Fix Everything Plan: eliminate residual addictions; improve nutrition, exercise, breathing, posture, sleep, and nervous-system regulation. The whole wellness ball of wax.

I started at the beginning of the year and have spent nine months machete-ing through my jungles of ignorance, indolence, and indifference.

What do I have to show for it? Reliably better sleep, fitness, digestion, posture, nasal breathing, relaxation, and energy.

Okay. Not bad.

But the PMPMP?

The pudge did not budge. Not a goddamn millimeter. I swear it was better last year.

So what the hell happened?

I once fell for the short con, multiple times. Am I now falling for the long con? Do they think I’ve forgotten the flat-belly promise and can be worn down over time with general well-being?

Nice try. I remember the prize.

This is where Future Jean and I begin to have contractual difficulties.

Future Jean approves of all this effort. She is beginning to look like a tyrant.

I’ve imagined that once I achieve her list of attributes, we’ll merge in a cosmic coronation ceremony. Until then, Cinderella Jean can toil and dream.

Apparently the fairy godmother requires a flat abdomen before releasing the carriage.

And what if I never achieve those musts? Strive harder? Add another protocol? Slip into Failure Jean?

All very cinematic. Drama bomb.

But there’s a kernel of truth, and that’s what worries me. I can spend an astonishing amount of today working toward a woman who gets to enjoy her life later.

Meanwhile, the woman doing the work is sleeping and moving better, has more energy, and can sometimes relax deeply enough to stop supervising the whole operation.

I enjoy looking back month to month and noticing how I’m changing. There is pleasure in that, until I inspect the miracle for the missing item.

I’m still learning the distinction between hope and expectation. I used to hear “have no expectations” as “don’t hope for much,” which sounded miserable.

I can have high hopes and work toward them. The difficulty begins when I decide my effort constitutes a binding agreement with the future, especially when I am both parties and the only witness is an influencer.

What if the PMPMP is the best today that it ever will be?

Maybe I should invest in caftans. I once asked my mother why women wore them.

“For entertaining,” she said.

Never made any sense to me, until now.

I’m not ready to accept that just yet. Or ever. But I’m also not ready to abandon the long-term plan and jump onto the restriction-and-punishment bandwagon, which I know is counterproductive.

I’ll keep doing what helps. I would also like enough of my day left to enjoy being the person those things are helping.

Future Jean can wait a little longer for her coronation.

Sure would like to see a dividend or two, though. In the form of inches.

The more I think about it, the more I suspect I’ve treated my body like a delayed-delivery service. I place an order (sleep, strength, discipline, a smaller waist) and expect the package to arrive on schedule, undamaged, with tracking information.

Instead, the body keeps sending partial shipments.

One day, better balance. Another, a calmer response to stress. A little more stamina. A little less dread before exercise. Nothing glamorous enough for a before-and-after photograph, but enough to suggest that something is moving.

Just not the thing I keep measuring.

That may be the real trap: I’ve chosen one visible feature as spokesperson for my entire well-being. If the waistband doesn’t loosen, every other improvement must testify as a character witness.

They are not allowed to speak for themselves.

Perhaps the PMPMP isn’t the enemy so much as the employee I keep sending back to the office for failing to produce the report I wanted. Meanwhile, the rest of the department is quietly doing excellent work.

I don’t have to promote the pudge to management. I don’t have to love it, celebrate it, or pretend I’ve never wanted a different silhouette. I can want the inches and still refuse to make them the price of admission to my life.

That may be the more difficult protocol.

No app. No subscription. No twelve-minute morning routine led by a woman in a sports bra whispering about cortisol.

Just the daily practice of noticing when I’ve postponed my life again.

Future Jean can have her flat abdomen, if she wants one. She can also have the dance floor, the caftan, the fame, and the high-octane social calendar.

Present Jean is coming too.

And if the dress fits differently when we get there, I’ll call that a dividend.

If it doesn’t, I’ll still be there to collect.