What If I Loved My Body?
After what she’s been through, she certainly deserves it
Don’t look! I ordered myself in between removing my clothes and trying on the items I’d brought into the dressing room.
It was mid-afternoon on a hot day, and I was tired from earlier errands. My intuition whispered this wasn’t the best time to try on clothes given my sensitive emotional state (on top of having a bad hair day).
Days like this, nothing ever fit anyway.
Just put on the dress, I told myself. You’re not in the right frame of mind to see yourself without clothing.
My inner masochist couldn’t help it though, and I faced the full-length three-sided mirror in my underwear.
The overhead light flickered, casting a pasty glaze.
Sigh.
Gone were the days of unblemished skin, an ass that didn’t wiggle with every step, and a waist that didn’t look like it had exhaled.
Though I didn’t hate what I saw, I didn’t like it either.
Against better judgment, I turned to look at my body’s profile.
My stomach looked weird, like I was 5 months pregnant. I never knew when my tummy would choose to bloat. She had a mind of her own.
