I am going to take this time to call shenanigans on mirrors.
Your job is not hard, mirrors. It is simply to accurately reflect whatever is in your line of vision. And yet I have no idea what I really look like. I have a vague idea, sure, but I would like a more accurate idea of where I fall on the scale between ‘haggard’ and ‘less haggard.’
I bought one of you from Target a while ago, and you were my go-to mirror for getting ready in the morning and going out at night. And I’ll admit it; you made me feel good about myself. “I can conquer the day,” I would say to my reflection, “AND I might not even cry.” But everything always went downhill after I left my bedroom. Later I found out you are actually a “skinny-mirror.” In other words, you’re a liar. You make me feel better about myself, but you are not an accurate portrayal of what is happening here (picture me gesturing to my body). I keep you around anyway. I probably will forever.
But how about that bastard mirror in the bathroom at work? I walk in the room and I am bathed in the harsh halo of fluorescent light. You and the fluorescent light team up to highlight my every flaw. Every gray hair sticks out like straw. Every pore is amplified to the size of a pockmark. Every wrinkle becomes a Grand Canyon-sized gorge, but decidedly less majestic. You make me recoil in terror. How am I supposed to find love in this crazy world if I look like personified death?
And then there’s the 8x magnified make-up mirror. I’m pretty sure you’re the most accurate mirror I have, but I still hate you. No one should see their face that magnified–even if they’re plucking their eyebrows. If God had wanted us to see faces that close-up, he would have given us much fancier eyes.
For now, I’ll just really rely on my reflection in dark-tinted windows. Oh yeah, baby, you’re looking good super-imposed on that wrought-iron shelving unit. Work it.