The Mirror

I am not a resolution maker. The idea of resolutions is always tempting to me, but I know myself too well. I'm better off tackling small goals building up to a big change, than to make some dramatic promise on an artificial "new beginning," which I will inevitably break and disappoint myself with. Still, it's hard not to think about your body when the rest of the world seems riveted on that exact subject. It doesn't help that the gym becomes so crowded in the month of January that I avoid it like the plague, exacerbating the issue.

I have little shame in admitting that through my childhood and teenage years, I was a dork. In college, I consciously forced myself out of my socially inept shell, and became the considerably more outgoing woman that I am now. I don't regret this, but a sad truth of adulthood is that you begin to see nearly everything has a tradeoff. Encasing my inner nerd in a better-groomed, more confident package was no exception.

I shed my absolute devotion to jeans and t-shirts, and discovered that curly hair can look something other than frizzy, if you care for it. I learned how to put on makeup, shop for clothes, even flirt with boys! Over time, this developing awareness of how others viewed me changed how I viewed myself, and not in a positive way. Much to my constant disgust, somewhere along the way, I developed vanity, and more particularly, a terrible body image.

I do not keep any full length mirrors in my apartment. An initially accidental lack has become quite intentional over time. While occasionally inconvenient, I consider this absence to be enormously beneficial to my psyche. These days, I rarely find myself looking in a mirror with satisfaction, and worse, I can't help BUT look. I wonder if my skin is too red, my hair too frizzy, my nose big, my tits floppy, my arms flabby (am I developing a paunch?) and the list goes on and on. And while a very small, still sane portion of my mind registers that none of this probably has any bearing on reality, it sure does a number on my self-esteem.

On an "ugly day" I find myself desperately wishing that I could go back to the days of being able to look at my body with something like objectivity. True objectivity would require some standard of beauty separate from culture, which is impossible. But, as an awkward kid, I was able to look at myself and make statements like, "My knees are knobblier than most," or "My hair is more brown than X's" without assigning value to that observation. My appearance had no tie to my self-worth, and in retrospect that seems enormously appealing.

I can't turn back time and go back to the days of blissful ignorance, but I could happily compromise. I want to be able to see my body, realistically, and face what I am, what I look like, without shame or disappointment attached. I want to be able to make the best of what I have, without constantly wishing for something else. I have no idea how to get there.