(writing) exercise

It’s hot. Not hot exactly, but the sunlight is baking. It’s the first time the sun’s been out like this in a while and the dog is restless after several days of neglect. His walks have been too short and this run is overdue. He trots along; he knows this route—a gravel path in the slough. It's warm and my shirt, even with its short sleeves, feels too tightly woven. It’s hot and I’m out here alone. I’ve never passed more than half a dozen people the times I’ve been here before. This is our route. Five miles out and back and plenty of space for the dog to wander off the trail and back to me again. He knows the spot where I take his leash off. He slows there and sniffs and waits for me to unlatch his collar. He waits as I fumble with the headphones and leash—they tangle around each other and my fingers. He sniffs and pulls a bit. Then, he’s free. It’s hot. I squint, looking west, watching the dog run. No one’s out there with us—everything is still except the grass along the river. I grab the edges of my white shirt and pull up. I’ve never done this before, at least I honestly can’t remember a time I have. I take my shirt off trying first to slip it over my head with the headphones still on. The collar catches on the chords and everything comes off--headphones with the shirt. The temporary loss of the music feels uncomfortable, exposed. I’ve never going jogging in just a sports bra, but I’ve always wanted to. I’m thin and I have been since I was about 15, but I’ve always had a soft stomach—hidden under t-shirts. My chubby stomach has always kept me connected to my chubby adolescence. I’ve never been able to get rid of it, and I’ve worked at it, believe me. I remember despising it when I was younger—stretching in careful poses when I dared to wear a bikini, turning away from sisters and friends in a dressing room, never lifting my shirt to wipe a sweaty face after a long, summer run. I don’t ever talk about it, though. It bothers me enough that I can’t tell people. I don’t want to hear what they might say back—scoffs and rolled eyes or sit-up suggestions, there’s no good response, really. I’m too sensitive. My shirt’s off; I wrap it up with the leash and headphone chords and start running along the path. Deep breaths make my ribs feel taught and solid against the breeze. My stomach is soft, though; it shakes as I run. The last time I bought pants they were a size 4. My stomach shakes. That annoys me. I don’t know how to think of my own body. It feels good, though—the air, the openness, the exposure. It feels great to do something I’d been so afraid of. I see three bikers ahead and I hold my posture higher. They pass, I don’t care. I wonder what I look like to them; what that perspective is from the outside. Could they tell, as I pulled my arms in closer to my sides, that I'm not comfortable this exposed? What's it like from their view? I remember learning about the Venus statues in my first Anthropology class in college—small clay figures with disproportionately large and oblong breasts and bellies. They were made by early, cave-dwelling women, sculpting from their own perspective. The proportions were all off because they only saw themselves from above. I look down at myself. Do I look different from someone else’s eyes? It must be better than how I see it. That’s how I’m doing this--exposing what I like least about myself. I've decided to hope that other people see me better than I see myself