I’m standing naked in front of my full-length mirror. The door is locked behind me. But my eyes are not on my body. Instead, they are looking at the open curtain of my French windows. My body’s primaeval reaction to that open curtain is to run and close it so no one can peek inside my bedroom. It irritates me how instinctive it is for me to protect myself. On one hand, eons of evolution allowed this body to be able to see on land. And on the other, years of conditioning have made a woman’s body to always be on high alert for impending violence.
I shake my head, bringing myself back to the now. I had downloaded a kit from a magazine; a self-love starter kit. One of the activities on it was to stand in front of a mirror, naked, and observe your shoulders: were they straight, in acceptance? Thrown back, in defiance? Or perhaps rounded and drooping, in self-defeat?
I don’t know how the shape of my shoulders will lead to self-love but GenZers and millennials swore by this kit’s power so I observe my shoulders, ignoring the stretch marks that cover my body and the advertisement that pops into my head that had compared them to a tiger’s stripes. I ignore the tan lines, my thick thighs, the thatch of hair between my legs…I ignore everything except my shoulders.
They are straight, surprisingly enough, as if in acceptance.
Huh. If all activities in the kit are going to be this easy, then this self-love malarkey will be a doozy.
Feeling accomplished, I dress with care. I’m off to a meeting and I want to be comfortable, but also professional. As a final touch, I give myself a flying kiss and unlock the door, only to be greeted by a frowning mother and a staring father. My eyes immediately go to my toes as I do a recce of my outfit but I like what I’m wearing so the recce doesn’t take long and I look back at them, smiling.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” my mother asks.
I feel my shoulders shifting back, in defiance.
“It doesn’t look very professional,” my father says.
The shoulders start drooping.
I can feel the need to run back into my room and change but I force myself to remember that I like what I’m wearing. It’s hard, but I walk away from their scrutiny and disappointment.
*
It’s night time and despite the light being on in my bedroom, I have not closed my curtain. I’m reminded of a woman I used to observe who lived in the building opposite mine. Once, I had seen her in all her naked glory, curtains thrown wide open, admiring herself in a mirror, unselfconscious, unafraid of who may see.
What is she doing, I thought. Doesn’t she know you don’t change in front of an open window with the lights on? It’s so unsafe what she’s doing!
It was so uncharacteristic, I had to justify her actions in my head.
Maybe she’s an exhibitionist.
Maybe there’s someone in my building, her boyfriend perhaps, for whom she’s doing this.
Maybe she doesn’t realize that her curtain is open and everyone can see.
Maybe she doesn’t care…?
Tonight, after seeing that disappointment in my parents’ face on the clothes I was wearing, I can understand why she may have done what she had.
*
A week has passed since I finished all the activities mentioned in the self-love starter kit. I feel no closer to loving myself than I had a month ago. I wonder if I did it wrong as I look at myself in the mirror, observing my shoulders that are still, after everything, proudly straight instead of drooping with failure or thrown back in defiance.
I don’t understand it. If I had done everything right, I wouldn’t have this pit in my stomach. I go back to my self-love starter kit. I am convinced I must have missed something. As it turns out, I missed the postscript, hidden somewhere among the disclaimers.
The postscript says: don’t forget to confront the tormentor…you. People have opinions but they don’t really care. The only person that cares is you.
Song: All of Me by John Legend
Check out the other posts for 2023 here. Written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z
Header image: Photo by Adrien Siami on Unsplash
tales of Suchita 
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