Monumental

 "You got a belly."

"Mister Caven, are you having a baby?"

"Why is your tummy so squishy?"

The mouths of babes. How I wish I could gently close them from time to time. 

I know my six pack may have morphed, over time, into more of a loose case of singles, but as Middle-Aged Man says, "I'm workin' on it." 

Because I am. Ever since I turned fifty, my waistline has become a point of interest for those whose line of sight brings them to my navel, staring right back at them. This level of fascination is primarily found among those students whose first contact with me is often my gut. It is a frequent and regular reminder for me about the mild ravages of the aging process. What used to be maintained by a sloppy diet of Tombstone pizza and Coca Cola is now subject to an exercise regimen, intermittent fasting, an increase in my daily fiber intake, and the removal of Tombstone and Coke from the pantry. 

And yet, my silhouette continues its glacial shift. I know that removing my bedtime snack could make a difference, but it's hard for me to level one more may do into the desert of "no thank you." Which pretty much leaves me at odds with the voices of children who seem as interested in my belly as anything I might have to say to them. 

I have come to accept this focus on my midsection as an on-the-job hazard, much in the same way that fourth and fifth graders whose gaze is slightly higher have fixated on my distinct lack of hair covering my head. 

And somewhere I can hear my old man laughing. Dad was, by his own words, a "fat bald guy." Not that he didn't struggle with that first part. He was an avid racquetball player. He's the one who started me running all those years ago. We went for a run together before his weekend in California ended up in a fatal plane crash. 

So, I suppose that while I continue to mitigate the middle-aged spread, I will see my tummy and my extra forehead as a lasting tribute to my late father. 

But I don't think that will be worth explaining to a seven year old.