There's a sleek new racing bicycle in my basement that cost a small fortune which I've come to think of as "my belly."

See, three years ago I enjoyed an unexpected and mostly blissful twin pregnancy that created beauty. No doubt.

But also caused great destruction: a three-inch wide crater that winds a long, twisty road down the center of my tummy like a California fault line.

All women carry babies differently. I'm the kind who holds them like a torpedo sprouted from my belly button. By 38 weeks, Desmond and Josephine poked forth from my front like a NASA Space Shuttle ready to launch. 

They exerted so much pressure on my mid-section that they kindly ripped the tissue that once held my abdominal muscles together and left me with a peep hole into my internal organs. 

Let's play a fun after-dinner party game: Oh, look, there's my intestine!

Sadly, I am not exaggerating. 

I've watched my belly crest and fall in inch-high waves after a meal. Horrified by the alien beneath my skin, I consulted the doctor who cried, "Hernia" and recommended a general surgeon. The general surgeon ordered an MRI to peek at my innards then delivered the "good news." Technically, there's no hernia. Just a really big hole blown down the middle. 

And the alien? That's called peristalsis, the process in which the esophagus forces food from the throat into the stomach. It means my digestive tract is working well and is totally normal. 

EXCEPT NORMAL PEOPLE DON'T SEE IT HAPPENING!

Which brings me to the designer bike...

Read the rest at Feast After Famine.