Okay. I decided to do this blogathon on an impulse. No posts were in the bank, so they’re going up late in the day. For this, I apologize.

Today, from the crack of dawn, I was out of the house and tramping around town in the heat. No fun.

I had an appointment with my psychologist and our next is in one month.

We’re winding down…

Then back uptown we had another appointment with our financial advisor. Never fun and games either.

In between, a quick trip to the pharmacy to have a prescription filled. Walks with the dogs. The stuff of daily life that helps to keep us running.

I was thinking about you…

Still, all along, you were in the back of my mind. I knew I would have to get my new installment in fast. And late. Really late. It’s going to be short, too.

Here’s what I have to report. It’s about The 10th Mirror. “The Mirror of Consciousness” or the inner mirror. It’s about body-image. The power of the inner gaze.

Today, I wandered about feeling exposed…

For the first time in my life, I went about my business in downtown Toronto in the 90 degree heat wearing less clothing publicly than ever before.

Uncovered. Unprotected by folds of cotton. I was exposed, or felt that way. What was amazing, though, was an uncanny feeling of liberation. Nothing bad happened to me. No one stared. No one said anything.

It felt okay. It actually felt quite lovely. I felt cool, too. Comfortable. No one noticed.

An unforgettable encounter…

Years ago, when my weight had yo-yo’d up very high and I was seeing a doctor to help me lose some of it, I will never forget what happened to me as I walked over to his office for my afternoon appointment.

It was winter. I was bundled up against the cold. Walking briskly.

A man approached me. And as he passed me his words sliced into me:

“God, why don’t go on a diet? Why don’t you lose weight?”

Fat Discrimination. Weightism. Prejudice. Cruelty. It still stings.

Years before that, my mother and I were out shopping in a trendy little neighbourhood in Toronto’s west end. We were looking at clothes for me in a boutique when the salesperson, obviously the owner, said to us,

“We don’t sell clothes for people like you here.”

My mother and I promptly left his store and I have never returned to that part of town.

Why have I never forgotten the sting of these incidents? Why are  those memories still so strong? I’m desperately afraid something like that might happen again.

And now, those fears are growing duller.

But they’re still there.

Image: Minimal Wave