I want to be a naked mole-rat.

This is an essay for people who have recently noticed their bellies sticking out.

Putting a comma after "This is" suddenly makes it feel more like a story. This is your story. No, it's your belly. I know. And writing "belly" in hiragana to make it sound soft is such a way of running away. It's right on the edge of the sumo ring.
......Even if I dither and stall, the story won't progress. It's a weak-kneed, evasive attitude. No, the waist is not to blame. Because today's defendant is the one located right opposite it.

Alright, let's write it. Let's just write it.
Let's study, tap smartphone. ...Belly. Belly. Stomach. STOMACH. STOMACH-STOMACH. Thump-thump. Heart-pounding.

......Alright.

Yes. It has come out.

My belly.

It's still painful enough that I instinctively use inversion. I want to put it off as long as possible. Please give me some cold water. If possible, please pretend you don't see it. I couldn't stop wishing it was all a dream.

Is there no loophole left anywhere?
Is there not? Is it despair?

Tsk.

・

・

・

Peek.

Yeah. The facts haven't changed.
I'll write it down properly. ...Good heavens!

My belly has come out!!!
What should I do!!!

Especially around below the navel. A vague 3 centimeters. A squishy spot, perhaps. Wait. This is bad. It's a masterpiece of a visual from any angle. It's bulging. It's bulging whether I inhale or exhale. That's strange, is it broken? It's bulging so much it deserves a "THE" in front of it, you know?!!?
Since my natural posture is hunched, please imagine something like a hungry ghost from a hell scroll. Good heavens!

The future is in your hands. The fat is in your lower abdomen.
Shut up!

Look, right now. Lookism. These days, it's frowned upon to write about appearance, isn't it? I usually refrain, you know? But, it's fine if it's my own story, right? It's fine, isn't it? Because, you see...

Reflected in the mirror!!! My belly!!!
It looks pathetic!! But also powerfully fat!!!!
Wow wow!!!!!!

I wonder if it would be canceled out if I started dancing.
However, of course, I can only think of the causes.
Ramen, fried food, late-night potato chips.
Why does Kinmugi exist in this world? The world is too delicious. Is this heaven?

After all, with the four seasons, isn't everything in season all the time? Is it feverish? Carbohydrates are in season every day in the middle of the night, right?
Life is beautiful. In such a sparkling world, input exceeds output. Metabolism is dead. The inevitable birth of a hungry ghost. Oh boy, this is a problem.

If this were an essay that spun around and around, it would surely develop into a nice theme, like a story of a determined diet, a verification of some magic water that claims to hydrate you just by drinking it, or insights into the challenges of a healthy society seen from the perspective of a potbelly. It would spin around and land in a nice place.
But I won't choose that route. Because there are problems in life that have no answer. The collapse of the Mayan civilization, the tension at a high school reunion, and a middle-aged man's potbelly.

In our home, my partner and I have a habit of giving each other a squeeze when we pass by, but at some point, the squeezing started to include some rubbing.

……!!
This is a metabolic check……!!

No doubt about it. It's a metabolic hug. I've been caught. That might be part of expressing affection, but I have no choice but to do sit-ups. (Do them) (I'm going to cry)
The truth is always one. A middle-aged man is a solitary creature living on the opposite shore of cuteness, carrying an unsolvable puzzle. Tearing through it with asphalt tires. While rubbing his belly.

……Sigh.

And anyway, what is a 'middle-aged man' (ojisan)?

After all, 'ojisan' is too much of an insult.

In Japanese, once you add 'ojisan' to something, it's basically over, isn't it? Like 'so-and-so ojisan,' it functions as a receptacle for all kinds of karma. Saying someone is 'ojisan-smelling' covers everything from their physique and style to their conversation, you know? Even though it's as vague as a floral scent, it has the sheer power of pure, vague unpleasantness. What is that? It's too convenient. Don't take the easy way out. We live in a world where everything is being personalized. Come at me with an insult that fits me more as an individual and hit the mark precisely. I'll cry. That'll be the finishing blow.

Besides, in this world, if something has a 'G' attached to it, it should be mostly cool, right? Gundam, Giants, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. So why? The moment you politely add an 'o' to it, it becomes too much of an insult. There's nothing else like it. A word that can be used to mock someone so much even with the 'san' honorific attached. Maybe only 'naked mole-rat-san' can compete. No matter how you look at it, it's pitiful, naked mole-rat-san.

I can't help but sympathize with the naked mole-rat now. A storm of empathy is raging. We both ended up with names like this…… It's a harsh world. What kind of labeling is this world……

A feeling of camaraderie, or rather, like a colleague who has fought alongside me for many years, welled up, and when midnight reached its peak, I looked up the naked mole-rat.

The naked mole-rat does not age.

The naked mole-rat does not age.

The naked mole-rat does not age.

I shouted, 'Traitor!!' and tilted my Kinmugi beer again today. I want to be a naked mole-rat.

The end.