Something woke me in the dark, wee hours of the night. A thought, a sound, I’m not sure. I lay in bed for a while, trying to get back to sleep, but to no avail. So I swung my legs over the side of the bed, got up and padded into the bathroom for a drink of water.
I flipped on the lamp and examined my face for blemishes. Other than my residual sunspots, all was clear. Backing away from the mirror I turned sideways, smoothing my gown against me. I stripped off the black fabric to better see the results of the last six weeks of healthy eating and work-out efforts. Facing toward the mirror, completely naked, I ran my hands over my flatter stomach, enjoying the strength I felt in my core.
I frowned at my thighs, smaller, but still far from my ideal and then smiled at my lower legs, firm from the hours of biking and jogging I’ve been logging. Then I turned around and looked over my shoulder at my ass. It stood out full and white, framed by the tanned skin of my legs and back, larger than I want, but firmer and slightly perkier.
Facing the mirror once again, I cupped my breasts in both hands, feeling the smoothness of the skin, the round weight of them. They too are creamy white and set off by skin I’ve allowed to brown in the sun. I stretched, holding my arms over my head, stood on tiptoe and turned from side to side, giving my body a long look from top to bottom. And I was pleased—a different feeling from the typical self-criticism I experience. I have a ways to go before I reach my goals, but seeing actual progress and feeling stronger turned my middle-of-the-night-reflecting into motivation to keep pushing… even harder.