I’m forever asking Hannah if she can see my boobs through the shirt I’m wearing. I hold them like they need to be supported while asking. Every time, she says that she can’t. “Really? You can’t see my moobs?”
I’m self-conscious about my body. Yoga class has moved inside now that it’s cooling down, and there are mirrors all around the studio. Yesterday, while desperately trying not to fall over while doing warrior one or two, it could even have been a third, I was looking at myself in the mirror. My belly was hanging out of my shirt, and it was pulled tight across the two apexes on my chest.
Hannah, bless her, keeps reminding me that I’m hypertensive about it because I’m so self-conscious, that I’m seeing something that isn’t there. Today, she called it body dysmorphia.
It was picture day today. On the weekend, I made sure to get my hair cut. Last night, I trimmed my beard up nice and ironed my shirt. This morning, I put on my new, white, casual sneakers. I even wore a cardigan. I wanted to look nice for the picture because I send them to my parents – they need to see that I’m doing well.
It felt nice to dress nicely. I felt better about myself, even if not about my body, per se. I felt like I carried myself differently throughout the day. I like how clothes cover my body but, that’s only what’s on the outside.
Oddly, I feel exposed about what remains on the inside, hidden from view. It’s something that’s, apparently, only visible to me, even if I’m not seeing what it is I’m looking at.
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