I chisel away at the extraneous, allowing perfection to emerge. I inhale a prayer before stepping on the scales each morning. I gaze at the mirror; see my cheekbones getting more prominent as the adipose melts away, glacially, from my jawline.
My daughter says, “Mama, your tummy is so wobbly,” as she happily cuddles on my lap.
I dip French fries in ketchup and mayonnaise; savor the salty, tangy explosion of flavors in my mouth, even as my stomach churns with guilt. I pay my penance later on the treadmill.
Sculpting oneself is hard work. Some days I wake up exhausted.