Today, I got up and didn’t hate my body. That’s momentous for me. I didn’t step on the scale first thing, I didn’t mutter, “you’re so fat,” when I got dressed, I didn’t have hair despair. It’s not because I’m at my ideal weight or that my hair looked particularly good. In fact, I do need to lose some fat and gain muscle. And my hair actually did look like shit this morning. But for some mysterious reason, I felt at peace with my body instead of always rejecting it, trying to fix it, apologizing for it, or criticizing my mirror image. This new attitude could be the result of some planetary retrograde or a good night’s sleep. I don’t know if it will last. What I do know is that my body is aging, and maybe tomorrow I will not be so Zen-ish about the way I look. I might wake up and wish I still knew how to rock a pair of Levis and cowboy boots. I might decide I need to wear more drapey things. I might tell myself that I need to dress age-appropriately, to accept invisibility and retire into a pair of nondescript black trousers. Or maybe I’ll say “muffin top bedamned” and swear to be “Forever in Blue Jeans” and crop my hair and dye it platinum. Maybe I’ll make an effort to dress from the inside out, letting my psyche be my style guide. Maybe I’ll vow that being at peace with my body doesn’t mean being giving up a piece of who I am. Maybe I’ll say “Hello, Body, let me take you for a walk, buy you some red lipstick, give you an orgasm, slather you with Kiehl’s dry oil, make you a kale (sorry!) smoothie, order a pair of jeans that fit the shape you’re in.” Dear Body, be my honored guest.