Eeeek!

I’m standing in front of the mirror, aiming a lipstick at my mouth, when I spot something on my arm.

Eeeek!

My fingers go numb and the lipstick nearly takes a tumble.

Is that my bone? This can’t be! Where did all of my fat go? I’ve lost lots of weight, but not lately. Surely I haven’t. I don’t own a scale, but I’m pretty sure.

I have been eating and eating. I have gained weight. Surely I have. You can’t believe how much I eat.

If I go to my parents’ house with this bone sticking out, they will take it as proof of their suspicions that I am anorexic and pack me off to one of those places in the Utah desert where they will force feed me like a goose.

Eeek!

Take a moment, One Heart. Conduct a reality check.

My right arm is frozen in the position of lifting the lipstick. With my left finger, I reach across my body. Tentatively. Medical things gross me out. Bones and muscles are medical. So is fat. So is skin when stretched taut over a mysterious shape.

I brush the thing with the tip of a finger.

It doesn’t hurt. Doesn't bite. No Alien monster bursts out of it, roaring and spewing foul saliva.

I touch it lightly. Hello?

Inside, something resists. It is neither hard nor squishy. Not bone or fat. Not a Lump.

It is long and narrow but plump, like a fish swimming upstream to my shoulder.

I give it a poke. The thing goes flat and, when I remove my finger, it pops right back up.

Oh!

It’s a bicep!

* * *

Excuse me, but I need to get personal for a second.

My lingerie is too tight.

It is important to the story to tell you this; a good writer is always in service to the story. This does not prevent mortification, or a hot blush.

Let’s move on. Quickly.

* * *

These are your wings, Nina says. She is standing close, her arms reaching round. Her fingers meet at the spine and trace out to the shoulder blades.

Spread your wings, she says.

I hunch my shoulders, round them, pull them way down. Over months, I try dozens of contortions. One day I get it right. Who can say how? I surely can’t. I can’t repeat it, can’t hold it. And then I can, occasionally. And then every day. And then I can make it happen at will. I never know how. I don’t actually do it. I only imagine a word—strong—and there it is.

Presumably, there are muscles involved.

* * *

A few weeks after I started tango, Judith hosted a ladies’ party at Mercer’s, a consignment store on South Broadway far enough from central Denver to be severely un-tres-chic and therefore quite cool.

I arrived late. There was no one in the front room of the shop. It was quiet. Crossing to the back room, the sound grew loud.

More than a dozen women roamed the racks, piling up armfuls of things to try on. They had made a dent in the mimosas.

Look what I found! they called out. This is sooo right for you! They shared dressing rooms. There were squeals and giggles and groans and plaintive appeals: “Let me have that if you’re not going to buy it. … You don’t want it, do you?”

There were dares: I dare you to come out here in that! And bargains: I will if you will.

I found a few things and a storeroom to change in.

Some things that you like are not what you would wear. I found a kind of tank top, bronze silk, with flowers and leafy vines embroidered in bright reds and greens. It had stays, and it hooked up the front.

It’s called a bustier, Andrea said.

It doesn’t fit. I showed her. The hooks down the front didn’t quite meet; you could see a little line of skin there.

That’s how it’s made, Andrea said with a good deal of patience. Let me try it on if you’re not going to buy it.

Too tight, she said, seconds after she disappeared behind the curtain. My muscles are too big.

That’s a novel expression, I thought.

She pointed to her ribs, circling her side and around to her back. These are the muscles you use when you hold the frame, she said.

Sure thing, I thought. Women will make any excuse for a little fat in the corners.

The bustier fit me perfectly, Andrea pronounced. She decreed I should buy it. I didn’t really need her decree; it is the most beautiful piece of clothing I have ever had on.

Not that I have had it on often. I did not buy it to wear but to look at. With winter coming, I put the bustier in my best-sweater drawer. Every few days I got a glimpse of beauty as I dressed for work.

Occasionally I would put it on. The last time I tried, it didn’t fit. I could still get the hooks done, but the little stripe of skin was a wee bit wider, and I couldn’t breathe.

Wow!