Lately I’ve been feeling unusually content. I told Hugh as much when he took me to a Mexican restaurant last weekend. Normally, I enjoy my food, but am conscientious about calories and health. This time was different.
“Do you have any idea why I’ve primarily been wearing dresses and skirts the past few months?” I ask.
“No idea,” he says.
“Well, I’ve gained a few extra pounds, and I’m not willing to buy pants that fit,” I confess.
“And?” he looks at me with those eyes, expecting a dissertation on the philosophy of feminine fashion.
“And frankly, I don’t care. I feel perfectly fine.” I scoop a dollop of guacamole onto my fajita, and add sour cream for good looks.
“You are fine,” he jokes. “And your curves are great.”
That’s nice and all, but I sincerely don’t care what he thinks at the moment because I feel so good. I sit there on the lumpy bench in our modest town, and sense this wakeless, succulent, interior self-acceptance in a way I’ve never felt. Never have I savored my food so wholly as in that moment.