My husband has a tiny sliver of bellyfat that he’s sprouted in the last few months which I happen to adore. He happens to loathe this particular addition to his new, married, parental life, but I think it’s wonderful. This weirds him out.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m no Chubby Chaser. I’ve dated a handful of chubby guys and found that, while they’re initially fun to be around [as they've had to focus on making their personality shine, naturally], they tend to be too desperate and/or self-loathing in the long run. I’ve likened my few relationships with chubby guys with various trips to an overnight spa: at first it’s really nice to be fawned over and pampered and treated like a deity, but after about a week you just want a normal conversation, some time to breathe, and some regular damned food for once.

(Yes, I know, there are a number of chubby guys who genuinely love themselves and don’t give a crap that they’re overweight and are capable of a healthy, loving relationship with a man or woman. I know a few and am dear friends with a couple but never made the wise decision of actually gravitating to one of them romantically… anyway.)

But Greg’s belly isn’t an all-over pudge that has encapsulated his whole body, nor is it a beergut-esque pooch that resembles a woman in her second trimester. There’s no extra flab hanging off the bottom of his jaw and no extra jiggles under his arms or around his thighs. Greg’s little pudge is a barely-noticeable layer of extra torso that pushes gently on the front of his shirts and makes his pants only slightly harder to button and is so adorable I’ve found myself singing little songs about it.

Greg’s never been mistaken for a big guy, but can hardly be accused of being “scrawny”. His small frame carries strong, sculpted muscles under a perfect layer of soft skin that creates gentle contours and his legs are indicative of his high school cross-country career, still carrying the lean muscles of a runner that support perhaps the most perfectly crafted um… hindquarters I’ve ever seen on a man. (I’m trying desperately not to embarrass him publicly here.) Although he is a bit self-conscious of being shorter and leaner than the average American man, his 5′8″ body perfectly contains mine as we curl up together and I’ve had no problem gushing over how much I love his overall physique. :::siiigh:::

This nouveau bellyfat wasn’t acquired through laziness or beer-guzzling evenings watching television. It mysteriously appeared shortly after we got married and has been one of the happiest wedding gifts I’ve received yet (even better than RockBand2!) It’s not really even noticeable to the common observer, but to me it’s that little sign that Greg’s settled and no longer worried about impressing me or any woman who may come around. Not that he’s letting himself fall into disrepair, mind you, but he’s subconsciously aware that he’s comfortable and healthy and taken-care-of. And loved. Unconditionally. Forever.

Of all the various daily reminders that I’ve somehow ended up a settled, married, domesticated housewife, Greg’s little soft belly is by far my favorite.

This, however, has made me want even more to be a little bit MILF-y for him to come home to. Oh, the irony.