Hand Mirror

She decided to grant herself a unique pleasure that afternoon -- a wholly self-indulgent moment of vanity. Afternoon sunlight spilled out between the slats of the venetian blind, bright and white as magnesium. The fall air and the sound of the distant highway made a subtle accompaniment. She lie on her indigo flannel sheets completely nude, examining herself with a hand-mirror.

She had not done this in months at least. And nothing serious in over a year. Work had consumed her. Exercise and preparations -- the growing climax of 18 years of patience and planning -- consumed the remainder.  She had noticed the changes in her body as the weight dropped away. Sometimes the feeling would be joyous and light, other times she'd think, not nearly enough. Fear and the ardent necessity of it all dragged her to the gym up to 6 times in one week. 

But now, quite well ahead of schedule, she had lost all that was required. She had succeeded in making her goal a possible one. She didn't want to stop there, of course; there was so much more flesh to lose. Still, she was almost a year away from the moment that defined her life since the age of 9, and only 27 more pounds to lose. The rest was math; a pound a week equaled 27 weeks. Four weeks in a month meant 6 months. Six out of thirteen remaining.

All of that was lost on her at the moment. The tarnished sliver hand mirror examined  the newly defined landscape of a human being. The changes were subtle but no less than astonishing. Lines, angles, curves... Curves! For the love of the Universe; curves! She had been afraid that under all the useless flesh few curves were to be found. The idea of possessing some sort of a figure was almost laughable, and yet, there it was. Not perfect, not average, but more than adequate given the circumstances of her birth.