Muffin Tops and Other Unwanted Toppings

Because sometimes your jeans are the only ones in denial about your new waistline.

There was a time—somewhere in the distant, well-lit past—when I could button my jeans without sounding like I was giving birth to a feral cat. Back then, waistbands sat where they were supposed to, zippers glided up without protest, and nothing—nothing—spilled over the top like day-old dough in a too-small pan.

Enter my forties.

Now, my jeans and I are in a toxic relationship. I keep trying to force myself into them like a determined sausage, and they keep gaslighting me—taunting me with promises of “stretch” and “comfort” and then gut-punching me every time I sit down. It's emotional abuse, but with belt loops.

Let’s talk about muffin tops.

The phrase itself is cute, misleading, and passive-aggressive. Muffin tops sound like something you’d joyfully order at a coffee shop: “Yes, I’ll have a blueberry muffin top and a non-fat latte, please!” What it actually is? A soft, fluffy roll of betrayal that pooches out over your pants like it’s trying to escape a hostage situation.

It’s not just a roll. It’s a declaration. A soft, squishy protest against all low-rise denim, all-you-can-eat buffets, and the lies fashion magazines told us about mid-rise jeans being “flattering.”

Newsflash: nothing is flattering when you’re being slowly bisected by a waistband that thinks it's a tourniquet.

And here’s the kicker: the pants fit. Technically. The button closes. The zipper zips. But the price you pay? Internal organ damage, inability to breathe deeply, and a constant awareness of your own abdominal geography.

Let’s not forget the roll rearrangement dance we all do. You know the one. You zip up, look in the mirror, and immediately begin smoothing the top roll downward, redistributing side fluff, and doing a little hip wiggle like you’re trying to manually manipulate the fat into retreat. Like somehow you’re a Play-Doh Fun Factory, and if you smoosh it the right way, it’ll magically disappear.

Spoiler: it never disappears. It just migrates.

And leggings? Oh, sweet heavenly leggings. They’re the closest thing to a cease-fire in the war against waistbands. But let’s not pretend leggings are saints. Sometimes they roll down mid-walk like they’ve given up on your dreams and would rather live around your knees.

I had one pair that used to slide down slowly as I walked through the grocery store, creating a moving topographical map of every curve, ripple, and questionable decision I’ve ever made. By aisle seven, I was full plumber butt and two inches from mooning a toddler near the cereal.

Oh, and don't think shapewear is the solution. That stuff is just a modern-day corset with better marketing. It’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a rubber band. Sure, you can smoosh it in, but guess what? The fat’s still there. It just pops out the top, or worse, redistributes to areas you didn’t even know could jiggle.

And the shimmy into shapewear? That deserves its own Olympic category. There’s hopping, twisting, grunting, maybe even praying. By the time you’ve got it up to your ribs, you’re sweating like you ran a marathon, and you're late for whatever event you put the torture device on for in the first place.

Also, shapewear is a liar. It gives you false confidence. You strut out thinking you look snatched and sleek, but the minute you sit down? That muffin top rebels, your internal organs are shoved into your bra, and you’re calculating how long you can last before peeling it off in a restaurant bathroom like a human chrysalis.

Here’s the hard truth: at some point in our forties, our bodies start storing emergency snacks just above the waistband. The lower tummy roll? That’s just your body preparing for the apocalypse. It’s not fat—it’s survival storage.

And yet, despite the squish, the rolls, and the midsection mutiny, we still shame ourselves for not looking like an airbrushed magazine ad. We suck it in, hide it, wrap it, and wish it away.

But what if—hear me out—we just wore the bigger pants?

What if we stopped squeezing ourselves into jeans from a past life, stopped punishing our waistlines, and just went up a size? Not because we’re giving up, but because we’re refusing to suffer through one more muffin-top muffin pan disaster.

Imagine wearing pants that don’t leave you with red marks, a hernia, or the urge to cry in the fitting room. Imagine sitting down in jeans and not rearranging your body like a balloon animal.

Here’s your permission slip:
Let your waist breathe. Let the muffin top live. Let go of the fantasy size.

And if someone wants to judge your waistband fluff? Politely invite them to shove a croissant in their pants and walk a mile. Then get yourself a cinnamon swirl muffin and a cozy pair of joggers, and live your damn life.

Because your body isn’t broken—it’s just seasoned. And every curve tells a story. Some are sweet. Some are spicy. And some, yes, are frosted with muffin top.

And I wouldn’t trade a bite of it.