Sometimes I look down and talk to my body like it’s another person – me and the looking glass girl who i think of as male for some reason. I stand in the bathroom and tell him not to grow more hair on the inside of my thighs, because I’m damn tired of shaving again. Or I wonder if the bruises on his breasts will go away if I ever get out there and buy a bra that doesn’t have under wire. Sometimes we’re a team though, the we/me, when my hips sashay and the music in my headphones is loud, and I’m marching across campus in 100 degree heat and finding that last extra push to get me up the hill and to the parking lot again. Or when I put on strapy sandals and am suddenly 5 feet high and luminous. Or when the mascara goes on and I look back at my eyes from a couple of inches away and realize they’re really, really, green. Occasionally my feet betray me, sturdy hobbit things with hair on the toes, that I think I should be able to march across cut class with, but instead who get bitten by mosquitoes over and over again. My breasts confuse me, sagging, delightful, puckering when I pull at them distractedly as I’m reading. Heavier than I’d ever thought they’d be, bigger too, sometimes uncomfortably bouncy. But every day I look at myself in the mirror, try and see me, the me that I think of as me, in that peachy-brown shape, round and soft and squishy, occasionally floppy, that’s looking at me from the other side. I try remind myself that the stretch marks and the tummy over hang are actually kind of silky, soft to the touch. That the fact my ass has flattened out and scooted downwards doesn’t mean the hollow of my back isn’t still sexy. Sometimes I fail, sometimes I just feel ambivalent. Sometimes I stretch my arms over my head and find I’ve won. But every day I check, after the contacts go in and I can see clearly down to my toes, I check and remind myself that I am me, yielding rolling arms, small hands, wide hips, soft collarbones, ME.