Then, in 1999, Daniella and her jeans arrived. I thought low-waists would be a short-term fad. After all, the only people who looked good in them were ultra-slender celebrities. But a year later, the low-rise was on the rise. So I went to a Los Angeles department store, selected a pair of dark blue boot-cuts and took them into the dressing room. When I hoisted them up, I thought I hadn't pulled hard enough. They remained so far below my navel that my entire belly was exposed. I tugged some more, but the waistband didn't budge. My gut spilled over the top, like soft-serve vanilla ice cream. I whipped off the jeans immediately and left them crumpled on the floor. As I walked out of the store, I told myself the trend couldn't last. Soon, jeans that covered my bump would be back in fashion.

But the low-rise that Daniella created as a tribute to the backstage wear of 1970s groupies was soon embraced by everyone: middle-aged moms and their teen daughters; rich hippies and richer hip-hoppers; sorority sisters and Goth chicks; women as volleyball tall as Gabrielle Reese or as gymnast tiny as Mary Lou Retton. I watched in horror as the jeans dominated the racks in stores where I had once felt welcome. One by one, my friends adopted them. Then shirts shrank so much they earned the nickname "baby tees" and shriveled even more to "preemie" sizes. Everyone's belly was on display. To maintain my reputation as a stylish dresser, I felt I had to lose my gut.

With Daniella and her jeans as inspiration, I conquered my belly with a massive starvation campaign on a scale I had never before attempted: an 800-calorie-a-day diet. For two months, I subsisted on dehydrated soup, instant hot cereal, diet sodas, and frozen fruit bars. At one point, I missed the sensation of chewing food so much that I cried, and then brightened when I realized the tears might help shed some water weight. People said, "You look great!" and I think they meant it, even though I resembled a flayed figure from a page in "Gray's Anatomy." But through all the compliments, I knew the truth. Even though it seemed that I had vanquished my gut, the victory couldn't last.

I staved it off for about a year, during which time I wore low-rise jeans just like everyone and her mother. But sure enough, my gut returned: rested, ready but untanned. As soon as I saw it again, I was angry. I forced it into the low-rises, yanking at my shirt hems so they would be long enough to cover it. When I removed the jeans at night, the button and zipper left a red imprint, as if my gut had been branded at a ranch whose symbol was a wavy lowercase "I." Eventually I replaced my starvation-size jeans with larger ones.

That didn't mean I couldn't feel the casual denims pressing against my flesh as I sat in the audience at the fashion show. Staring up at Daniella's nubile form, I wondered how many calories she was burning by holding her large golden trophy. Then she turned to exit the stage, and the lights glinted off her obliques. And along with the awe and hate her abdomen inspired, I had another feeling: exhaustion. The sight of Daniella, in the flesh, made it clear. My war with my gut was a quagmire. In the long run, I could never win. It was simple genetics. Daniella would always look 12 years old. I would always look three months pregnant.

Then Daniella was gone, replaced on the runway by models whose bodies echoed hers. As I watched them, I wished I had a friend with me, someone I could commiserate with about how women are supposed to look, and how impossible that standard is to achieve. And an image formed in my head of my gut and me as pals. It was a hyper-colored MTV-video-style fantasy: the two of us running through a lollipop forest, white chocolate doves flying through the air, cherry blossoms falling from the sky. In this vision, my gut was not a despot, but a Friar Tuck. Together we would fight the too rich and too thin! Or maybe just protect my reproductive organs, as my mother had suggested years ago.

But when the lights went on and I stood up to leave the show, I did what I always do -- sucked my gut in hard.

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