There is a window I pass, every day on my way out of the building I work in, that gives me a terrible reflection. I’m walking down a set of stairs, or maybe a ramp, and facing direct into the window. The reflection is always a bit wider and shorter than I think I really am. Since it is the last reflection I see every day, usually until I brush my teeth and go to bed, it is depressing. Every day at 5PM, short fat Leah shows up.
Today I was walking past Marshall Fields on Wabash, on my way to Nordstrom Rack if you must know, and I looked at my refection. Normally I notice how my shirt rides up funny in the back, because my big bag pulls it funnt. Or I judge the weird way that my top is meeting my pants. I judge whether or not I look horrible or passable. How bloated did the dairy in that pizza make me at lunch? Judge, judge, judge. Negative, negative, negative.
And this, keep in mind, is after a few months of therapy about feminine energy and body image. This is BETTER than it has been in the past.
Today I was looked into the window and looked at my legs. I hadn’t put on my tennis shoes, because I wanted to buy some shoes and the heels I wore to work made more sense. Easy on, easy off. So I had on high heels and a denim skirt that hit just at the knee. I focused in on my calves.
Wow. I have really nice legs. Not up close, up close you see the spot I missed shaving, the bruises from hitting my desk and bicycle pedal, the spider veins from working retail. But as a moving person, walking down Wabash on a Friday afternoon in a skirt with heels–damn. I have nice legs.
I was so enthralled with my legs that I kept along side of the flattering window for the entire block of Wabash and then down Washington. I was mesmerized by those legs. I could just be friendly windows, but it could be that I have nice legs.
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