Don’t call it a comeback. (Please. I really need you to stop calling it a comeback.) Bellies have been here for years. And they’re not going anywhere. Well, mine isn’t anyway.
After enduring decades of constant anti-gut sentiment from the factions of medicine, fitness, and fashion; after barely surviving the slim-fit era by paying designer premiums for button-up shirts short enough to leave acceptably untucked; after suffering through so many bogus belly-trend pieces, scary health study listicles, and gut-buster workout regimens, I’m done. Fuck you all: the belly stays.
Trust: I’ve tried. For what felt like a good long time, I cut my carbs and did my crunches, I piked and I planked, I’m pretty sure I even cared. Once I moved to Texas (where carbs come from), I had to start trying a little harder to care. Eventually this waned to the point of just not. (Caring.)
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.