Hair: Okay. Not fabulous, but okay. At least it's not a big puff of electrified frizz like yesterday. And it does have a nice curl. I'm glad I decided not to dye it burgundy after all. Yeah, the hair's okay.

Nose: Too broad? Too big? I think I have an anti-exhibitionist nose. It blends in with the rest of my face. My nose goes. I used to envy the sharp relief of the WASPY ladies' aristocratic noses, but come to think of it, this nose is fine. Maybe a little cute, even. Could be thinner, but it'll do.

Cheeks: I'll confess that I unabashedly adore my cheekbones. They're strong, sassy, sexy-- and how I love to blend a hint of gold into them so that I shimmer like the sexiest mamma alive when I smile.

Lips: A funny thing. I can still remember going to sleep each night with a clothespin clamped on my lips so that they would shrink. I was seven years old. The white girls in my class called me "fishlips" and "blubbermouth." My first diet wasn't to slim my hips, but my lips. Funny how twenty years later, those same girls who called me "fishlips" are trottin their skinny booties to the cosmetologist to get collagen injections so that they could have a pout like mine. I have honest lips. I love all the shapes my mouth can make, how my lips have the power to transform my entire expression.

Eyes: Dirt brown or melted chocolate? I get confused. The guys always sigh about mocha this and chocolate that when they're under my spell, and my eyes feel magic, alive, glowing. But when I saw Tyson walking down the street with some wispy blonde hanging off his arm, don't think I didn't notice that those eyes of hers were blue as bottle glass. Times like that, my brown eyes feel ordinary as river dirt. My mama always told me that I had sad eyes. It's true: even when the rest of me is laughing and carrying on, even my honest mouth smiling, there's a still, sad fire that sits in my eyes and the flames do not dance.

And then, the body. Time for the truth.

Chest: You know, my breasts are mischevious. They're always on the prowl, looking for trouble. They don't like being suffocated in those godawful underwire bras. My breasts crave movement and fresh air. They're still perky, even after two babies. It's how I know there's a woman inside of me who isn't done lovin' yet.

My shoulders: smooth, shadowy, strong. They give me a sense of power. I've got shoulders that can carry weight. Not that I intend to subdue them under a staggering load of everyone else's burdens. My shoulders say to the world: Here is a woman to be reckoned with.

My belly: Round. Is roundness a crime of excess or a morsel of succulence? There's more of it every year, but I can't bring myself to diet away the added gravity of me. Perhaps because I've spent so long becoming a woman of substance. My voice is loud and full. My laugh echoes in a large room. Where would my abundant spirit fit in a skin-draped skeleton? I love my belly for the two miracles it incubated: my children. There's days I catch myself looking sideways in the mirror, sucking the air out of my lungs so that my stomach looks flat. And then I laugh, exhale, push my powerful belly out as far as it will go. Who wants a flat belly if it means you spend your whole life craving a deep breath of air?

Hips: When I dance, it seems that my hips burst into flower, pouring out movement and music. My hips carry me as I swoop and twirl, dip and slide. My hips have the power to cast spells.

Me. Somewhere in all those body parts, maybe the sum total of the physical boundaries of my Self, or perhaps the invisible glue that binds it all together. Mysterious.

I look in the mirror and an intimate stranger looks back at me. Her lips automatically curve into a cryptic half-smile, half shrug. Her hands on her hips, belly and breasts thrust forward, eyebrows raised in a challenge.

She is asking, asking me, with her eyes, her lips, her body, "And who else would you have me be, if not myself?"

***

xxx,

moonbird

***

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