Where once my workouts sought to flatten my belly, these days they’re centered on properly framing it -- building the house around the fireplace, as it were. I even find its form has function: my belly makes for a fine tactile gauge of the depth of my squat, a helpful barrier for the descending bar during my bench, and a crucial counterbalance when in the hole of my deadlift. And while I may keep my core somewhat insulated, I also keep it strong; I slack not on abs, nor apps.
Plus, fine, make me say it, I actually think it’s kind of cute, all right? And on that front, don’t call it a #dadbod, either.
These repeated lame attempts to raise the belly’s public profile (like #dadbod, an ostensibly positive trend-scourge celebrating the alleged rise of doughy post-collegiate bros) actually do little to buoy the spirits of us chronically bellied, ever-aware as we are that fickle fashion is probably just drunk texting us before passing out and waking up back to its awful former self.