I hate mirrors. They show more than they need to.
Every time I pass one, my eyes dart around like scared rabbits. Who wants to see the ugly truth?
I don’t. But there’s a mirror everywhere you look. Are people so obsessed with themselves? Half the population hardly qualifies as average looking. Then what are they staring at?
A glimpse of something special. The hope that a particular pose or angle will make them look better.
I hate to break the news, but you are what you are. And a mirror is the unkindest form of self-reflection.
Isn’t that what those gurus and life coaches keep harping on about?
Love yourself. Accept who you are. Smile and bear it.
What do they care or know? All they want is money and a large following. Pretty or ugly means little to them. We’re all fools in their professional dictionary.
I share a two-bedroom apartment with my friend. She’s the pretty one. Hot some would say. A face and body to die for. Her room is an ode to mirrors. There’s even one on the ceiling.
I keep away from that prison of deception. There are no other mirrors. A month-long argument got rid of the one in the bathroom. It was a relief that I didn’t have to see myself every time I took a shower or used the toilet.
I’m supposed to visit the doctor twice a month, every second and fourth Thursday. My mom comes to pick me up. Her eyes always look so sad. Maybe she needs to get rid of her mirrors too.
The nurse makes me stand on a scale and notes down my weight. Her smile couldn’t be more fake. She then checks my blood pressure. It’s usually too low.
The doctor always stands to greet me. He shakes my hand and then leads me to the full-length mirror and asks me what I see.
I can’t stand to look at myself. There’s too much flesh and fat. It hangs from my hips and shoulders. My face is a pale ball of dough. Even my eyes barely open. I want to scream but all I do is whimper.
The doctor tells my mom that I’ve lost four more pounds. I’m down to ninety-three. If I lose more weight, I’ll have to be hospitalized. She starts to cry and tells me I look like a skeleton. I don’t know what she means. Can’t they see what I see?
It’s not my fault if I’m anorexic. I believe what those evil mirrors tell me.
I hate them.
Ali takes care of his sick grandmother. He is only seven. But his mother calls him The Man of the House. The boy takes this too seriously.