The pointless pursuit of midsection perfection

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So you'll just use your kids' college funds to pay for all the back surgeries that result from ignoring your core?

And just when you decide your abs are absolutely the wrong thing to let go, just when you vow to realign your priorities and eliminate gluten and start wearing your yoga pants to actual yoga class, you catch a glimpse of your daughter.

She's upside down. (She's always upside down.) This time it's for a perfect handstand, and her shirt is up around her shoulders and her little bare belly is exposed and she is giving that last detail exactly the amount of thought it deserves, which is none.

It's a belly. It connects her legs, which need to be in the air, to her strong shoulders, which need to support her. It holds food. It reminds her when she's hungry. It might, someday, house a baby or two. It doesn't need to look like Jillian Michaels' belly or Selena Gomez's belly or whatever perfectly toned midriff happens to flash before her at any given moment.

It's her core.

And she's your core.

And you decide your priorities are fine and your blessings are bountiful and your good fortune is, indeed, astonishing and if anything is going to go, by golly, it's going to be, once again, your abs.

And the popcorn/wine meals. And maybe Facebook. Point is, there's a middle ground between killer abs and slowly killing your health and sanity (and core). And you can find it.

And then you can go find your one-piece.

Twitter @HeidiStevens13

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