Page 8 of Sunny Side Up

I immediately took cover behind my white marble kitchen island, hiding from the construction worker standing on a lift outside my fifth-story window.

After getting my bearings, I peeked over the counter and saw him blushing into his chest, pretending to look away.

Part of me wanted to bang on the window and ask what the hell was wrong with him, had he ever heard of privacy before?

But as I took in his reddish-brown hair, jawline of scruff, and rosy cheeks, I felt myself flush.

Who the hell was this gorgeous man?

Why were they suddenly popping up out of nowhere?

And how long had this particular gorgeous man been watching me?

Although, to be fair, I did have a faint memory of Mr. Miller emailing the whole building about construction dates, which floors would be affected when.

… From my crouched position, I just could reach the counter where I’d left the remote control for my blinds.

I hadn’t seen the point in closing them until this very moment.

The daily flood of sun was such a welcome change from The Other Place that I was willing to live in a bit of a fishbowl.

Besides, everyone in the city kept their blinds open.

You got used to seeing a lot of each other.

I stood up once the blinds were shut and thanked them for their service. Though I did kind of want to peek behind them to see if that guy was still there. I couldn’t have imagined that, right?

Electronic, remote-controlled blinds were a luxury that came built into my one-bedroom apartment, along with a heated bathroom floor, gorgeous brassware, and a sound system throughout the floor plan.

Otherwise, it was uncharacteristically unfinished.

Normally, no matter where I went, including hotel rooms, I nested like a pregnant woman on deadline.

Doesn’t take a shrink to deduce that I was still having a hard time settling into being single once again.

The couch delivery had felt like a victory, a symbol of independence.

Six months earlier, I’d signed the lease on this apartment, bought myself a king-size four-poster bed complete with a dramatic canopy of New York City–centric toile, then took a break.

The next big item on my move-in agenda was changing my Wi-Fi name to something that rivaled the others in my building.

(“IP Frequently” and “Wi-Fi Fo Fum” were two of my favorites.)

As the construction noises picked up again outside, I decided to give myself another once-over. That construction worker had ogled me as though I were Venus coming out of her shell; I wanted to try to see what he did.

I pulled my hair into a quick bun so that I wasn’t distracted by its current state.

Big smile in three, two, one, no matter how fake: Okay.

I had to hand it to myself. The endless moisturizing was paying off.

Glowing skin. Great face. A gold Marlo Laz charm dangling right at my cleavage.

Kind of sexy, fine, I’d give it to them.

I took off my slip dress and took a deep breath to keep going.

If I was going to get over the divorce, and all the dumb shit that led up to the divorce, I had to get on my own team first. No more repeating hurtful things he said to me.

No more agreeing with them as though they were true, no more accepting them as though I had it coming.

No more spending this much time obsessing over my body, honestly.

I was a busy woman! Thinking about my weight—where I jiggled, where I dimpled, all the places I wanted to shrink—it was exhausting .

I had far more interesting things to fill my own head with.

I didn’t just want a different type of romantic relationship—I wanted a different type of relationship with myself, with my own body.

I never wanted to feel helpless or at the mercy of someone else’s opinion again.

I appraised my shoulders. They were broad and strong.

I went back to my stomach, and when the rumblings of my usual self-shit-talking started to bubble up, I reminded myself of the playground adage, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.

” So I made a note to work on that area, but decided to skip it for now.

I had narrow hips and a round butt. Not hearing any judgments there…

okay, carrying on. My thighs were thick.

I liked them. The cellulite, not so much, but, whatever, whatever.

Cellulite was a matter of genetics and lighting.

I just had to accept its existence. My calves were solid, and my feet were bigger than most. I stood tall at five-foot-eleven, 275 pounds, thirty-five years old.

I threw my broad shoulders back. I was single on my own terms. I was successful, even by New York City standards.

I had an amazing group of friends, two amazing dogs, an amazing apartment.

I loved my parents, even when they drove me insane.

I felt lucky to be so close with my younger brother.

Hey! I loved my new couch. The wheels started turning.

This felt good, these affirmations. This perspective shift.

Even if some of it was bullshit. Fake it until you make it, right?

Calling myself “beautiful” still felt like a step too far into a tampon commercial, but “hot”?

I’d give myself that much. It was time for a new me.

Or—even better—the same me, with a new attitude.

I turned around and did my best RuPaul strut to the kitchen counter, still in the nude. With a click of the remote’s button, I opened the blinds and pretended I didn’t notice anyone was watching.