This morning I stagger from bed to bathroom, flick on the light and look in the mirror. Horrors! “Damn, you’re ugly,” I shout. “Takes one to know one,” it responds. So begins another day with Body Dysmorphic Disorder, a life-long love/hate relationship with mirrors.
Oh, the furtive glances we make at our reflections, the inordinate time spent in front of mirrors, prepping to meet a world that does likewise. We’re strangers to ourselves, made-up manikins at the masquerade ball.
This morning I asked my mirror for a divorce. The flower of youth had faded and the mirror was treating me with contempt. It grinned and said, “You’ll be back.”
I can’t recall when I fell in love with mirrors. They seduced me, became addictive. Perhaps it started when acne assaulted my face, or, with razor in hand, my anticipation of finding facial hair sprouting from my chin.
With girls it’s different. They search for other signs of maturation---bulges here, curves there and early exploration with mama’s Mary Kay. Boys don’t have much anatomy worth looking at early on. Mirrors just mock them. Bikes rule. But when girls replace bikes, mirrors take on new meanings.
I know these things. My friend, Robert, had a sister named Judy, a voluptuous beauty who matured early. She was 16, we were 13. She sat nearly nude in front of a mirror ringed with lights. She thought herself an actress. Most girls do, I later learned.
Fortunately, a wide crack separated the French doors. We spent our time staring through that space into her Paradise. The mirror stared back with the image of its Starlet. One night it reflected our voyeurism. Screams and curses ensued. Life for us was never the same. We fled on bikes with only memories of the mirror’s reflection of Judy’s anatomical attributes. Ah, youth, sweet youth.
I soon grew facial hair and learned to drive. Our car’s rear view mirror took on great significance. I glamourized it with an enormous pair of white, fuzzy-foam dice. Nausea describes my father’s disgust. Fortunately, he had a sense of humor. I later learned just how he felt when my own son….well, you know, the fruit falls not far from the tree.
The rear view mirror revealed both a fading view of home and enthusiastic activities in the back seat on double-date nights at the drive-in movie. Ah, pity such education is absent from schoolroom curriculum these days. It’s rumored that the elimination of bench seats in cars caused the closure of all drive-in theaters.
But these are silly things. Age abolishes childish ways. Mirrors now rule. Count the mirrors in any home. Our home has just under 1,000, not counting picture frames. Some have good light. In the ‘right’ light, I look differently. You do, too. We avoid harsh reality mirrors.
Excessive preening at mirrors is not in itself a symptom of a serious psychotic state. Unless, of course, the image speaks. It’s the first thing we do in the morning, the last thing at night. We can’t escape ourselves, don’t want to. Face it, we’re in love with what we see.
LaRochefoucauld, an obscure French philosopher, postulated that we put on outward appearances to look how we want to be thought. He concluded that society is entirely made up of assumed personalities. The mirror is a co-conspirator. But then, what do the French know beyond food, wine and roundabouts anyway?
Women have torrid love affairs with mirrors. Men are less inclined, having little to conceal. And L’Oreal’s Mascara for Men cannot outsell Old Spice, some circles excluded. Men like gym magnifying mirrors, which enhance male egos. Egos are on steroids.
We live in a carnival House of Mirrors. Its reflection exaggerates and sometimes makes grotesque our forms and shapes. Why people pay money to be seen in such ways is a mystery. But carnivals often cast reflections of society. We behold ourselves, forgetting that we’re only exaggerated dusty vapors with short shelf lives.
Our home’s ‘back-door’ mirror is my last chance for a full-body scan before leaving. Today I recanted my request for a divorce. Apology accepted. We’re back on again. Who else would put up with my narcissistic notions?
I dredged up some compost today, but one memory is still missing…O, Judy, where are you?
Bud Hearn
September 15, 2011
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