I hate mirrors


I don’t have a lot of mirrors in my house. There are the usual ones above the sink in the bathrooms, and one full-length in my bedroom. Don’t get me wrong, I like to look nice. I spend the requisite half-hour in front of my mirror each morning, putting on makeup and blow-drying my hair. I check to make sure that my outfit looks good before I leave my room. You know, the usual stuff.

But seeing my reflection throughout the day has never been high on my list of priorities. Once I check in the morning, I’m pretty much set for the rest of the day. Unless it’s date night or girl’s-night out, I just don’t look in the mirror on purpose. It’s no big deal, but every once in a while if I catch a glimpse of myself that isn’t quite right, I feel bad for the rest of the day. So I try not to let that happen.

But if this blog were a mirror of me? Well, I think it’s obvious that it would be cracked, shattered into hundreds of tiny slivers, held together as if by magic. Each shard would reflect a different angle, a separate moment, a fragment of me. You’d glimpse my dark hair here, my green eyes there, my smile, my tears, my memories each locked in its own little piece. All together the pieces would barely make sense; you might not grasp just how usual I am in reality. You might think that you know something about me, and then you’d blink or change position, and that image would vanish, replaced by another, equally powerful one.

And me? I’d be behind the scenes, rearranging the shards like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle just to short out your assumptions. Don’t ever believe what you read online.