Part III: What Happens a Cappella? (Chapter 53)

I’ve been doing the mirror exercise every day for three years now, except that since coming to Sioux City for the reunion, there’s no place to do it.

No full-length mirror at Sal’s, except in the hallway, and you must be naked ‒ totally. I’m not ready to stand naked in Sal’s hallway, although Dr. Garrett says that if I really wanted to do the exercise, I’d find a way.

I do miss it, I want to tell him.

You must face yourself, tell yourself how much you love your body, no matter what anyone else or the ads say. You have to love every inch of pale flesh, every roll, every wrinkle, every lump of cellulite, every stretch mark, every chin, the boobs hanging on your midriff that make your back ache, the globs of fat between your thighs that rub together and chafe all summer long, the butt that wiggles when you move, the graying red hair that falls to your waist, the same hair that everyone says is too “young” for a 40-year-old woman ‒ your last rebellion against old age.

I’m supposed to love this creature who stares back at me every day, and, God knows, I try ‒ I’ve been telling myself this for over 1,000 days now, but I still can’t help that first morning shock‒like ice water hitting my face and freezing ‒ the nausea, the daily epiphany that the fat lady in the mirror is really me. Because when I’m away from the mirror, I, too, have thin days when my body feels long and sleek, my belly flat, my neck long and free of chins, my breasts small and perky, my hair no longer streaked with gray, my rear end taut, my legs slender ‒

I just wish all this self-love would take root soon, because I’m sick of fighting against myself, my body chemistry, my zillions of fat cells.

Face it, Samantha, you were born to be fat.