There is a full body mirror propped against the wall in my bedroom.
Every morning, after I stumble out of bed, I walk past that mirror and do a full body check.
Okay, here’s the truth: I’m really just checking my stomach.
Okay, not my “stomach,” – my B-E-L-L-Y.
The soft, rounded, divine feminine curve of my midsection that every magazine, TV commercial, and fitness program has taught me to fight my entire life.
I’ve done the same belly check since I was 11:
- a couple 180 turns,
- lift up the shirt, drop the shirt, lift up the shirt, drop the shirt,
- decide if I’m “allowed’ to feel good about myself that day,
- judge what I’ll be “able” to wear from my closet,
- take a quick mental tally of how many workouts I’ve done that week – am I keeping up?
Today, I walked by the mirror fully nude, my soul filled with the sunshine illuminating my bedroom and the scent of Nordic espresso floating from the kitchen.
I stared at my reflection, rubbed my soft belly once, paused, and marched right over, picked that heavy bastard up, and turned it to face the wall.
When I need to check if my shoes match my skirt, I’ll consult the mirror and make a judgement call.
But beyond that, I’ll spend my mornings sipping espresso on the rooftop deck, counting my sweet blessing (like this freakin’ rooftop deck!) and not giving a daaaaamn about the reflection of my soft curves.