Target had the audacity this morning.

Forty degrees outside. Gray sky. Yesterday’s rain still clinging to the pavement like a warning. And there//front and center in the women’s section. bikinis. Not tucked away. Not gently introduced... Plastic torsos standing tall as if winter itself were a rumor.

Just the idea of exposed skin gave me goosebumps.

And then, as these moments often do, it turned inward.

From a distance. from a very respectful distance... if I stood perfectly straight, engaged every muscle, and ensured absolutely nothing pressed into my middle, you might be fooled. You might squint and think, “Oh, toned abs.” A mirage. A generous illusion.

But you wouldn’t be fooled for long.

Because reality, like Target’s swimsuit section, insists on being seen.

So now comes the internal negotiation. A few sit-ups? Maybe. A return to the gym? Possibly. At minimum, a sincere acknowledgment that the small mountain of Christmas cookies I’ve been scaling over the past few days has not been neutral in all of this.

Not regret exactly. Just… cause and effect.

There’s something almost philosophical about it. Winter asks us to rest, to store, to soften. Retail insists we be ready for summer at all times. And our bodies respond to what we actually do, not what mannequins promise.

So no, I didn’t buy a bikini. I bought what I came for and left with my coat zipped, my cookies mentally accounted for, and a quiet resolve forming. not to punish my body, but to re-enter relationship with it.

Spring will come when it comes.

Until then, I’ll be over here, squishy, self-aware, and unimpressed by seasonal gaslighting.