(You know how people like to share the good news about cheap gas? Like how just the other day it was on for 116.2 at Zehrs? Well, I just found another good mirror. Sportchek - I just spotted myself in an accidental mirror, make-up free and I didn't scream. Go on and get yourself an ego boost.)
There is simply no such thing as an absolute mirror. A mirror you can trust to reflect you back to you. You can go from one mirror to the next and the next and look like a completely different person at each one.
Far be it for me to insinuate that there could possibly be a mirror conspiracy. No, no not at all. It’s not as though I believe faulty mirrors were invented by the same diabolical masterminds that brought us fat free cream cheese and Angelina Jolie’s lips. It could very well be several different diabolical masterminds, determined to make us feel atrocious and therefore sell us whichever Thigh Masters, lotions and lip-plumping lip gloss they are selling. Although...okay, maybe not the Thigh Master. Chrissy from Three’s Company invented that one and I don’t think she’s in danger of being called a diabolical mastermind.
I’m assuming it’s something to do with the glass. Or the way it’s treated or something. I don’t know why all the mirrors of the world are different but I do know this – I have three mirrors in my house within ten steps of each other. A vintage mirror in my bedroom, mirrored closet doors beside my bed and a bathroom mirror. I wake up in the morning, roll over to face the mirrored closet doors and see a hag lying in my bed. A hag wearing the pyjamas I wore last night. Her hair stands up on end, her face is rumpled and old from sleep, and she has a decidedly fleshy arm the size of a normal person’s thingh sticking out from under my covers. We glare at each other and climb out of bed. Then I turn to see myself in my vintage mirror. Here I see a faded, sepia-tinged reflection. Like a lost woman from the nineteenth century or a plain-faced ghost. I always feel a little sad when I see this reflection, and wonder if I said ‘Bloody Mary’ into the mirror five times this version of me would climb out of the mirror, fingers curling around the frame, to hack up my whole family.
Then I head into the washroom for my morning ablutions and voila! I have managed to lose fifteen pounds in ten steps, my normally sallow skin has a healthy glow and my face is practically line-free. But you know what? This super-flattering mirror (exclaimed over by many a friend in need of a pick-me-up) is the one I never trust. Surely that is not how I look. That is not how I feel, so no way right?
Sometimes I head out shopping to find myself a neutral mirror and Oh Boy, is this ever a bad idea. Certain mirrors are rough – Sears has terrible lighting, Reitman’s mirrors seem a little condescending and Le Chateau....I’ve been snubbed by the Le Chateau staff too many times to even try their mirrors again. Shame though. Cute shoes in there.
The worst, as any girl can tell you, are accidental mirrors. You know what I mean – when you don’t realize there is a mirror to your left and you glance over to catch a glimpse of yourself before you even have a chance to suck in your stomach or tilt your head fetchingly or anything. These are probably the most honest mirrors out there – but does anyone ever need this much honesty?
Which means we never really know how we look, not really. Pictures are the same as faulty mirrors. Your friends love you so it’s not like they are going to say, ‘Oh my God Jen – do something about your face! You look so washed out!’ My son Nathan is pretty good at telling me when I look bad (once when I wore too much make-up he told me I looked like Queen Amidala from Star Wars. If you don’t know who she is, look her up. Ouch), but he’s never in any rush to tell me I look good. Which means, I suppose, that I’m going to fumble around in the dark forever, never knowing how I really look.
The good news is, though – so are you. We’re in it together.
Far be it for me to insinuate that there could possibly be a mirror conspiracy. No, no not at all. It’s not as though I believe faulty mirrors were invented by the same diabolical masterminds that brought us fat free cream cheese and Angelina Jolie’s lips. It could very well be several different diabolical masterminds, determined to make us feel atrocious and therefore sell us whichever Thigh Masters, lotions and lip-plumping lip gloss they are selling. Although...okay, maybe not the Thigh Master. Chrissy from Three’s Company invented that one and I don’t think she’s in danger of being called a diabolical mastermind.
I’m assuming it’s something to do with the glass. Or the way it’s treated or something. I don’t know why all the mirrors of the world are different but I do know this – I have three mirrors in my house within ten steps of each other. A vintage mirror in my bedroom, mirrored closet doors beside my bed and a bathroom mirror. I wake up in the morning, roll over to face the mirrored closet doors and see a hag lying in my bed. A hag wearing the pyjamas I wore last night. Her hair stands up on end, her face is rumpled and old from sleep, and she has a decidedly fleshy arm the size of a normal person’s thingh sticking out from under my covers. We glare at each other and climb out of bed. Then I turn to see myself in my vintage mirror. Here I see a faded, sepia-tinged reflection. Like a lost woman from the nineteenth century or a plain-faced ghost. I always feel a little sad when I see this reflection, and wonder if I said ‘Bloody Mary’ into the mirror five times this version of me would climb out of the mirror, fingers curling around the frame, to hack up my whole family.
Then I head into the washroom for my morning ablutions and voila! I have managed to lose fifteen pounds in ten steps, my normally sallow skin has a healthy glow and my face is practically line-free. But you know what? This super-flattering mirror (exclaimed over by many a friend in need of a pick-me-up) is the one I never trust. Surely that is not how I look. That is not how I feel, so no way right?
Sometimes I head out shopping to find myself a neutral mirror and Oh Boy, is this ever a bad idea. Certain mirrors are rough – Sears has terrible lighting, Reitman’s mirrors seem a little condescending and Le Chateau....I’ve been snubbed by the Le Chateau staff too many times to even try their mirrors again. Shame though. Cute shoes in there.
The worst, as any girl can tell you, are accidental mirrors. You know what I mean – when you don’t realize there is a mirror to your left and you glance over to catch a glimpse of yourself before you even have a chance to suck in your stomach or tilt your head fetchingly or anything. These are probably the most honest mirrors out there – but does anyone ever need this much honesty?
Which means we never really know how we look, not really. Pictures are the same as faulty mirrors. Your friends love you so it’s not like they are going to say, ‘Oh my God Jen – do something about your face! You look so washed out!’ My son Nathan is pretty good at telling me when I look bad (once when I wore too much make-up he told me I looked like Queen Amidala from Star Wars. If you don’t know who she is, look her up. Ouch), but he’s never in any rush to tell me I look good. Which means, I suppose, that I’m going to fumble around in the dark forever, never knowing how I really look.
The good news is, though – so are you. We’re in it together.
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