Belly-O-Belly

Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve had a belly. Not just any belly though, a nice round specimen which protrudes from my otherwise slim torso. Perhaps round isn’t right; teardrop maybe, Hershey’s Kiss even. You see, it slopes down gradually from the top of my torso before asserting itself as a gloriously round, luminescently pale, slightly speckled force to be reckoned with.

But I haven’t always seen it as my crowning glory. Sometimes I’ve thought that a washboard stomach would be better. Nicer for sleek dresses, tank tops, swimsuits, tight jeans, drawstring pants, etc. But, BOY-O-BOY!, who could wish to be rid of an always ready meditation device like this? Meditation device, schmeditation device, you say?

Blasphemy! You simply don’t understand. Have you ever gone up to a statue of a laughing Buddha and rubbed his belly? Doesn’t it bring you peace -- put things into perspective? Ah ha! Gotcha! Not convinced? How about the pleasure of kneading dough or working on clay to get it ready to be thrown on a pottery wheel? I knead my belly. I need my belly.