Dear body,
Hello! It's good to see you again. You've been buried under layers of long pants and sweaters all winter, but now it's February in Georgia and that means spring. So now I'm standing in front of my vanity, looking in the mirror - hands on hips, like Superwoman wearing my swimsuit just to see if it still fits.
Hell-ooo...
When did I get gorgeous?
When did that little smirk get there, one corner of my lips up as I'm trying not to laugh?
When did my hair get so long?
And while we're on the subject, where'd that tan I had last summer go?
And I definitely don't need to ask where all my Christmas candy went. Yikes.
But all-in-all, not bad.
Sure, there's that huge burn scar on your arm, that one you haven't seen in a few months because of all the sweaters. I'd almost forgotten about it, the way people always glance at it and then look away quickly, pretending they weren't staring. And, okay, your legs aren't nearly as thin and muscular as you wanted them to be. (Hint: Running works better if you actually do it, instead of think about it.)
There's seventeen years worth of dancing and boxing and jujitsu in that mirror. Seventeen years worth of body-hating, body-loving, not caring and caring a lot looking back at me. Seventeen years of split knuckles, skinned knees, bruises, burns, scars and cuts written on my body. Seventeen years of doing my own stunts, getting into fights, hobbling around on crutches for weeks and trying to be left-handed because my right arm's in a cast.
It's looking at me in the mirror, and I'm looking back at it, trying to see what everyone sees when they look at me.
