2, 3, 4, 5

Before my nightly shower, I usually undress in front of my bedroom mirror and place my clothes on my leather club chair beside my bed. While I pull off my sweater and pants, I take a glance at my reflection and begin to giggle. The giggle soon becomes a full-blown laugh.

“Oh my God! I look so stooopid!” I say, looking at my reflection. “Is that really me?”

My hands slide down my stomach, pressing every few inches.

“Two... three... four… five? That’s not possible.” I count again. And again. After the third count, I laugh at the preposterousness of the fact. Even in cases of vanity, I still come up with an odd number.

“It’s like they put the right stomach on the wrong person.”
For the better part of two decades, I was the fat one, the one who made people laugh with self-effacing jokes. Now, when looking in the mirror, the fat one is gone, replaced with a thinner imposter. The person on the outside doesn't match the one on the inside. Where's the double chin, man boobs, five stomach rolls, and thighs that made sparks when I walked? They're not there. It's a jarring image to me. And, I don't like it.

After the shower and for the rest of the night, I unconsciously pass the time pressing the palm of my hand against my stomach to make sure the reflection wasn’t playing tricks on me. It's not.

Note: This post is dedicated to all those who called me fat/out of shape... and, by the way, it's more ripped, now. Ew.