My ex and toyboy paid for my new tum
Thursday 4th June 2009
Magic pants, they call them. Modern day torture devices, more like. You know the ones, those super-stretchy knickers that go up to your boobs and down to your knees. It takes ages to wrestle your way into them and then it's a pain to move or even breathe. And if you find yourself needing the loo, well, give yourself plenty of warning. Yes, it's true they make you look a lot slimmer, but God, I hated those awful pants. They were uncomfortable, awkward, and as sexy as Ian Beale in a mankini, but for me, they were a necessary evil. I didn't have a bad figure considering I was 48 and had had four kids. In fact, as a size 12 to 14, I was in pretty good shape. Apart from one thing. My saggy belly.
I thought it was disgusting. Lifting the crêpey skin felt as if I was kneading pizza dough. What made the whole thing worse was that my husband, Phil, was 13 years younger than me, and his own toned tummy was showing no signs of middle-age spread. It made me worried. When we'd got together back in August 1999, I didn't feel nearly as old. Fast forward nine years, I'd had a baby, our daughter, Madison, now 9, and I felt like a saggy old crone. Not that he complained. Quite the opposite, in fact. 'I love your tummy,' he'd say if I was grumbling about it. 'I'm glad someone does,' I'd snap back at him.
I never let him see me naked, always diving under the duvet with the lights off before he'd even made it to the bedroom. I know what you're probably thinking. What's the point of marrying a sexy toyboy if you're going to be shy in the bedroom? I thought just the same thing. Every time I went underwear shopping, I'd shuffle past the pretty bras and tiny knickers in the lingerie department, longing to fill my basket with them. I knew that if I walked into the bedroom in a red, silk thong Phil's eyes would be on stalks, tummy or no tummy. But knowing how awful I'd feel in them, I always ended up leaving the shop with pants that could double as a four-man tent. I'm fed up, I thought after one shopping trip. There must be some way I can shift this belly. I'd tried everything. I'd gone to the gym, tried every diet under the sun, and none of it had worked. So at home, I found myself doing an internet search for something that had been at the back of my mind for ages. A tummy tuck. Not that we could afford it, I thought as I scanned the different clinics' websites.
Operations cost about £6,000 in the UK and £4,000 abroad, and with Phil an electrician, and me an office worker, we weren't rolling in it. I could never get my hands on that kind of money. Unless… No I couldn't. Could I? Before I met Phil, I'd been married to Dean for 19 years. When we'd divorced in 1998, I'd been given a settlement. I spent some of it, and the rest was in the bank, waiting for a rainy day. About £4,000 to be precise. Could I really spend my divorce settlement on a tummy tuck to feel more sexy for my toyboy lover? Why the hell not! Anyway I'd given Dean three great kids, Bradley, 25, Scott, 24 and Sophie, 18. Now his money could pay for the damage they'd done to my figure. In fact, I didn't know why I hadn't thought of it earlier. Decision made, I had to talk Phil round. I knew he wouldn't be keen, so when he came in from work, I was ready, with a stack of information printed out and a beer waiting in the fridge.
Never one to waste time being tactful, I blurted it out straight away. 'I hate my stomach so I'm going to have a tummy tuck,' I told him. Phil's face fell. 'I wish you'd get over this,' he said. 'You're gorgeous as you are. Anyway, where do you think you'll find the money?' 'If I go to a foreign clinic, it's only £4,000,' I told him. 'About £2,000 less than over here, so I have the right amount.' 'No,' Phil said. 'If you really want it done, you'll get it done in Britain. I'll give you the extra £2,000.' Even better. My first and my current husband clubbing together to pay for my surgery. It was like getting a time-share tummy. I gave Phil a big hug. 'Thanks, love,' I smiled. 'This is going to change everything.'
All systems go, I rang a cosmetic surgery clinic and within two weeks, I was chatting to one of its surgeons in Southampton. 'There's no reason why we can't give you a tummy tuck,' he said. The total cost was £6,200 and Phil was still happy to top up my £4,000 from the divorce. I was so excited, I even managed to sit through a gruesome film of the operation. 'Oh my God,' I winced, watching through my fingers as a woman was sliced from hip to hip, her skin and flesh being peeled back. 'That'll be me soon,' I gulped. 'I still think you're mad,' Phil said. 'Sure you won't change your mind?' No way. Two months later, in August 2007, I was being prepped for surgery. Scared doesn't begin to cover it. But I was also focused. Bye bye flab, I thought to myself, as I drifted under the anaesthetic. Waking up, my lower torso felt as if it was on fire, but the surgeon told me the operation had been a success. Wound up in more bandages than an Egyptian mummy, I had to take the doctor's word for it.
I was allowed home the next day. 'Still glad you did it?' Phil said, when he saw me shuffle in like a little old lady. 'Yes,' I insisted. No pain, no gain. Those first few weeks, I was in a lot of pain. But every time I looked at the bandages, I'd smile, thinking about what was underneath. When I did get a look, it was a dream come true. I had a stomach to rival Britney Spears', paid for by both my men!
I'm still chuffed with how it looks. The kids call me 'skinny tummy mummy' and for all of Phil's worrying about the op, he thinks I look great too. I think my new confidence in the bedroom might have gone some way to convincing him! And my lingerie, well… My drawer full of magic pants has been replaced by lacy thongs and silky French knickers in every colour you can imagine. Finally I can enjoy all the benefits of being married to a toyboy, thanks to my ex-husband. Now that's magic!