Every time the sun comes out, the question of whether or not I should show my belly button comes up.
I know until last June, when the resort season (see: Calvin Klein) first remarked they were going to be de rigeur, this query seemed insignificant. I also know that I’ve expounded upon the laminous relationship I, personally, have with my belly button (both via my dumb-ass book and a past-season post) but I think I’ll say it once more, just for posterity: I have, for the longest time, wanted to be the kind of girl who wears baby tees a la Jenny McCarthy circa Singled Out (please don’t judge me for being able to earnestly cite her as a childhood style icon).
This is, no doubt, a hankering that has been perpetuated by my mother’s disabling me from participating in one of the only trends that could have actually rendered me cool in 1994.
Granted, I was five, and double granted, I was doughy, but in 2014, at 25, it’s not like I’m not doughy. I’m just also not not doughy. And I haven’t stopped wondering about my belly button. My mom said I would, but guess what?
No abs, no care. Like, at all.
I feel as comfortable now as I did then letting it run free, this even in spite of a fundamental understanding that Amelia was probably right when she said that the thought of walking around with her “button” showing feels more intimate than going pantsless. I hate pants anyway.
It just presents the question of whether I look flashy or trashy so I’ll let you be the judge and ask one more time: should I show my belly button?
Lint party at my place! BYOMTS. (Text me if you need me to break down that acronym.)