2
Istudy myself in the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. I sigh, because I’d almost forgotten how nice it feels to dress up, to put on some sexy lingerie and a little black dress and some strappy little heels.
“I actually look pretty good!” I say to my reflection.
This is, however, a little piece of positive self-talk to combat all the negative thoughts running through my head:
Your ass is getting big.
Your hips are bigger now than when you were pregnant with Aiden.
Your boobs are getting saggy.
You have those little flaps of fat hanging out under your armpits.
Your thighs shake like Jell-O every time you take a step.
I shutthe thoughts down and force myself to say one positive thing in response to each negative thought:
My hair is long and shimmery and beautiful.
My skin is tan and smooth and basically flawless.
I’ve lost five pounds in the last three weeks—a small victory, but still a victory.
I am beautiful, and the numbers on the scale can’t change that.
I’m curvy and sexy, and I’m rocking the heck out of this little black dress.
I givemyself one more look, checking for flyaways in my hair, smudged lipstick, VPLs, or bra straps that might be sticking out. I’m five-seven, with reddish auburn hair and hazel eyes that shift from green to brown to gray depending on what I’m wearing and my mood—right now, my eyes look more green than anything. My body is…well…in college and before Aiden, I had a pretty darned amazing body—an hourglass figure, perky breasts, plump but firm hips and butt, and not a lot of extra weight…just enough to make me soft and curvy. Then I had Aiden, and a few—ten or fifteen—pounds never quite left, and then things happened with Daniel and I suffered a long-term bout with depression and packed on a few more pounds—like, twentyish. After the divorce and more depression and more struggles, I finally managed to drag myself out of the emotional pits and went to work on trimming down; I’m almost back down to where I was before I had Aiden. Within ten pounds, which, considering where I started—almost forty pounds overweight—is a heck of win in my book.
A huge part of that win has been learning to shut down and combat the negativity—most of which echoes the things Daniel said to me during the worst of our marriage, when things were dissolving, and I was letting myself go, and he began showing his true colors.
I smooth my hands over my hips, twist to take a look at the rear view: not bad, and getting better. And, I remind myself, I’m my own harshest critic. Cora, my parents, and people around town let me know they see me differently than I see myself, but it’s awful hard to shut out that nasty little voice once it starts whispering its lies.
I smile at myself. “You’re beautiful, and you’re going to have fun tonight.”
“I agree,” Cora says from behind me, surprising me. “You’re sexy as hell, and all the guys in town are going to want to bang you.”
I whirl, smacking her playfully on the arm. “Inappropriate!”
She just waggles her eyebrows at me. “It’s not inappropriate if it’s true.”
I snort. “Um, something can be trueandinappropriate, Cora.”
She just makes a mocking face and sticks her tongue out at me. “Whatever. Quit being lame.”
“I’m not lame! I’m a mother and a guidance counselor,” I insist.
“Neither of which makes you a nun!” Cora fires back. “You’re thirty-two, which means you’re in your sexual prime—you’re allowed to have fun! You’re allowed to have a sex drive!”
I sigh. “Yeah, well, I don’t. And I haven’t for a long time.”
Cora smacks her forehead with her palm. “No kidding! What do you think I’m trying to change? Duh! Now let’s go!”
She drags me out of the bedroom, and I have to hop to finish buckling the straps on my heels. Aiden is already waiting by the front door, his Nintendo Switch in his hands, tongue running along his lower lip as he plays Mario Kart. He has his overnight bag on his back—Ninja Turtles, of course—packed with pj’s, clothes for tomorrow, toothbrush and toothpaste, and his battery-backup alarm clock…which is, secretly, also his nightlight. He’s still young enough to not like a totally dark room, but too big for a real nightlight.
“Ready, kiddo?” I ask, grabbing my purse off the counter and transferring phone, wallet, key ring, and a few other odds and ends into my little black cross-body clutch.
