Belly Betrayal

Why does my body only act up when I have plans? Like, I can float through an entire week of doing jack shit, and I feel fine. Normal. Chill. The second I’m excited—like, actually hyped-up, grinning-like-an-idiot, counting-down-the-hours excited—suddenly my body turns into the fucking villain of the story.

I’ve got back-to-back concerts lined up. Two cities. Two nights. Road trip with my husband, singing in the car, making memories we’ll talk about for years. And what does my body do? Goes full mutiny. Constipated. Bloated. I feel like I’ve been filled with cement and air at the same damn time. I swear I gained 30 pounds overnight, and not the cute kind.

And it’s always something. On the days I don’t have plans, I get headaches out of nowhere—like the universe is bored and spins a wheel of torment. But on concert days? Apparently tummy ache is the “fun” option. Like, gee thanks. So thoughtful.

What kills me is the timing. Why not on a random Thursday when I’m folding laundry? Why not when I’m already doing nothing worth remembering? No, no, it waits until I’ve got tickets in hand, outfit picked out, good vibes only—and then it’s like, “Surprise, bitch! Here’s to feeling like a balloon animal with no escape valve.”

And I’m just supposed to accept that? Nah. At this point I think my body and the universe are in cahoots. Some secret little deal where I can’t have pure, unbothered joy without some kind of physical sabotage. And honestly? I’m over it.

But here’s the thing: I’m going to that damn concert. I will be shaking my booty, screaming lyrics, and living like my insides aren’t actively trying to sabotage me. I might collapse in the car on the way home, but I refuse—refuse—to let my stupid body stop me from living.