The Midriff, Mid-drift

My stomach is flabby and it looks sloppy.
By my calculations, I spend approximately five minutes out of every hour thinking about this.
This is how that sinkhole of a thought process sounds (usually performed while alternating sideways turns and letting my gut in and out before a mirror):
My stomach looks horrible. Why does it look so flabby and sloppy? Even if I hold it in... in... in... There. I can barely breathe! Phew! That's disgusting. Simply horrid. I could wear other clothes, clothes that hide it. But I don't want to wear baggy clothes! I want a flat stomach. Why can't I have a flat stomach? Cause I gave birth twice. After the first time it went back. Why hasn't it gone back yet? I have friends with flat stomachs. I know moms of three with flat stomachs. I want a flat stomach! Think about that next time you eat chocolate. But I want to eat chocolate! Tough luck. You better stop eating chocolate and bread. You better work. It's genetic though! My mom had a flabby stomach at my age. Fuck my shitty stomach genes! Fuck my flabby stomach. 
It's totally embarrassing, not to mention an extravagant waste of time. Especially for a woman who calls herself a feminist. But I can't seem to stop!
And come to think of it, I've always had those thoughts. Even back in high school, though back then it was the (tiny!) extrusion of cellulite between my thighs. I used to pinch the backs of my legs to make it disappear, and stand there admiring the gap and wishing it would always look that way. Now when I see pictures of my seventeen-year-old self I think, what a fucking idiot.
Thus the cycle of self-denigration continues. Can you imagine a man partaking in this nonsense? If men gave birth they'd probably keep the gut as a badge of fucking honor.
Not only do we have to always look amazing, we also have to make it appear effortless. Why do we do that? To show off? If we look fabulous, why can't we accept a compliment by saying, Yeah, I work really hard to look this good. I exercise an excruciating four times a week and it took me a half an hour just to get dressed. But no. We have to shrug it off. We have to toss our hair, which we spent another half hour on, and say the requisite, 'This old thing?'
Maybe that's why I love drag so much. The cinching, the hours of makeup tutorials and application, the elaborate clothes, the tucking and fixing and wig-styling. This is womanhood exposed, naked and flaunting its every gesture. This is pride in a hard day's labor. It's a shame we need men to teach us that lesson, but the least we can do is learn it.