Fake belly button fluff is fraudu-"lint"

 "I was sharing with the class, the impact words can have on a person," I explained to Sydney on the phone. "Uh-huh," she murmured, browsing the interweb for something called a cascading veil. "It's a tough balance, because I need them to develop steel spines...to not let the words and opinions of others determine their self-worth. I'm raising wolves...not sheep." Sydney stifled a yawn before her voice brightened, "Oh! The angel cut is nice." "On the other hand, they also need to know the reverberating effect that can result from an emotional punch delivered by cruel or insensitive words." There was a bit of a silence as Sydney missed her cue because she was deliberating between the subtle and stylish 72 inch train that flirts with the floor or the dramatically daring 120 inch train that sluttishly sweeps across the stage. "I told them my outtie belly button story."

Sydney snapped to attention. "What?" 

Brad, tiredly slouched on the couch, sat up. "What?"

"You know this story," I snarled at them. "I was around twelve years old, at a friend's house and a bunch of us were getting ready to go swimming. I was wearing a cute little bikini when..." I could hear Sydney muttering on her end of the line, "Yet I wasn't allowed to..." I continued, "...my friend's father told me that people with outties shouldn't wear bikinis." Brad and Sydney gasped indignantly. My 4th graders had been similarly outraged. "You don't have an outtie," Brad said before staring, with uncertainty, into space. "You're missing the point," I told him, "it shouldn't matter. ANYONE should be able to wear a bikini, safe from unkind comments (hashtag 2024)." Sydney spoke up in support of her father. "Dad's right. You don't have an outtie. Does your belly button resemble a balloon bottom?" Brad quickly googled. "Are you referring to the drip point or the bead?" Wrinkling our noses on both coast-es, Sydney and I said, "Ewww." "Get your minds out of the gutter," he growled, "I'm talking about a balloon." "The little knotted end," Sydney clarified. Brad nodded knowledgeably before turning to me again. "Yeah. You don't have an outtie."

This was a revelation. 

For 42 years, I had been traumatized by this event. 

My adult self recognized the utter inappropriateness of an grown male commenting on a little girl's body. But that little girl's insecurity clung to me like a damp bathing suit for over four decades. That thoughtless, insensitive, inappropriate comment determined my self-worth, censured my clothing selections, and made me think that there was something "wrong" with my body. Innie/outtie...wear it proudly. 

"Well...it's not an innie," I said, thinking of all the perfect little concave wishing wells accentuating the toned tummies of magazine models. "I couldn't sport a belly button ring. It would look like it was trying to escape over the wall (of a rapidly deflating rubber raft)."

The three of us sat in silence as we reflected on my story. The crippling power of words. The paralyzing repercussions of a cruel comment. Realizing one can't go wrong with the 90 inch train because it's labeled as "chapel cut."

"So if it's not an innie and it's not an outtie, what is it?" Sydney asked, baffled.

"It's an in-betweenie," I announced, reclaiming my belly button after two-score years of verbal subjugation. And somewhere out there, a little girl, wearing a cute little bikini, fearlessly raced towards a pool filled with her screaming friends, pinched her nose, launched herself with utter abandon, airborne, screaming (inappropriately: hashtag 2024) "Geronimo!" before cannon-balling into the water.

"Are you watching? Did you see?"

Yeah. I saw it.

Now...do it again.