I am a creature of habit, a freak really. I am not someone who is comfortable with change. There, I said it! How many times has it come up on my job dialog that I am “not good with change”, like it was something I needed to improve upon or to apologize for. You know what I say, “Whatever.”
Yes, change is inevitable and eventually, this old dog learns the new required tricks and I “get with the program”. However, I usually do it dragging my feet like some overtired kid that is heading up to bed, after being told repeatedly to do so, whining the entire time, “But, I don’t want to.” It’s who I am, I know what I like and I stick to it. I’m the type of person who will order the same dish every time I go to a particular restaurant because I know I will enjoy it. Why try something else and risk being disappointed, right?
I have lived my entire life in the same house, except one year, but it wasn’t even a complete year so maybe it doesn’t count. It is an old house, built in the 1920’s and has wood molding everywhere. Even the inside of the closets are adored with it, that’s serious dedication to wood molding. The upstairs bathroom has a built in medicine cabinet and on the door is a mirror. Of course, my parents wanting the house to look more modern in the 60’s painted over most all of the wood molding, including this built in medicine cabinet. If I had to guess, I would say there are easily fifty coats of paint that have been layered on over the years to try and disguise the beautiful old wood and make it look shiny and new, modern even.
However, it refuses to give up its true identity. Due to the extreme moisture that accumulates in this room, the rust from the hinges bleeds through the layers of paint, revealing it’s age. There are chips in the paint and the caulk that holds the mirror in place is missing a chunk or two, but I like it just the way it is. The task of stripping it down to the original wood would be insurmountable and then if I did the mirror, I would have to do the molding around the door and the floor and then the rest of the house, so that it would all match and well, I think it’s best that I just leave it be.
Most every night of my life, I have washed my face before going to bed. Not as a baby of course and taking account of the almost a year I didn’t live here, vacations and times I was just too tired to care, I estimate that I have done this task approximately 17,364 times. I have a habit, after I wash my face, but before I go to dry it, I look in the mirror. Sometimes I have the lights on, others just a nightlight, but never in the dark. Yes, I am eternally scarred by the whole Mary Worth Urban Legend thing. I take a moment and look at myself and think about who exactly is looking back at me.
I believe that my face is a perfect meld of the best qualities of both of my parents. It’s difficult to say if the shape of my eyes would be my mother’s or my father’s because quite honestly, they looked like they could have been siblings. Maybe it was because of all the years they spent together or the pure Polish heritage they both shared, but they honestly did resemble one another. My nose is a toss up as well, but my cheekbones and chin are those of my mother. My prominent forehead and thin lips, I think that’s dad. The blonde curly hair and the color of my eyes are from my mother’s father. Put all the features together and you have me, but that’s not always what I see when I look in the mirror.
I don’t have memories of what I saw in the mirror as a child, but I do recall my adulthood. When I was 20, I lost a chunk of weight. I remember a day that I was laying on my tummy in bed, propped up on my elbows while reading a book. I gazed down at my body and freaked out because my armpits looked hollow. I ran to the bathroom to see what was wrong with me and realized that I had lost enough weight that I actually had armpits, not just underarms. I hadn’t noticed this change in my body and it took a moment to be comfortable with it, but soon I recognized my accomplishment.
I had achieved a body image that would be considered “normal”. I looked in the mirror and noted my slender face, prominent cheekbones and my bright blue eyes with golden sunbursts around the pupils. This may have been the first time I considered myself to be “pretty”. I smiled back at myself in acceptance of the change, or metamorphosis that had occurred. This was me without all the extra layers of weight, stripped down to the “original wood”, but I wasn’t happy, I just weighed less. The weight loss hadn’t revealed my true identity, it just made it easier for people to accept me.
Inevitably, I could not maintain that amount of weight loss and it slowly crept back on over the following year, the year my mother wasted away. I remember making a remark about her weight loss to her and she barked back at me that I was just jealous. Maybe I was, but in my oblivion I thought she had been doing Weight Watchers like I did and I just didn’t tell me. Now she was losing weight and I was gaining it back. It was a very confusing year for me. I was 21 and didn’t realize that my mother was dying. I knew she wasn’t well, but dying? Looking in the bathroom mirror, I no longer saw bright blue eyes with golden sunbursts around the pupils. Instead, I saw cloudy gray-blue eyes, bloodshot eyes from crying over the confusion of what was happening to my mother and my future.
Over the next few decades, many different versions of myself would appear to me in the bathroom mirror. After my mother’s passing, I saw a scared and confused Gail that gave up hope of being a screenplay writer and instead transformed herself into a younger version of her mother. There was the young bride about to embark on a new adventure with plans to travel the country being a chef in whatever city she chose to land in. Next, I saw a single mother of two beautiful children with minimal funds to properly raise them with. Then, the mother of two grown children and a elderly father to care for. Most recently, a middle aged woman who has battled her own low self esteem for decades who has finally found her voice and decided to write a blog.
Too many times after washing my face, I look in the mirror and see my mother. I see someone who was tired and sad, but kept on going because she must. Sometimes after washing my face, I look in the mirror and see my father. I see someone who is full of themselves, someone who thinks they are much more sexy than they really are, but who has also endured much strife, so maybe the conceit is warranted. Of late, after washing my face, I look in the mirror and see someone who is at a turning point, uncertain of her next steps, but excited for the possible journey that lies ahead. I am looking forward to the day that after washing my face, I look in the mirror and see my true identity, the person I am meant to be, the person who is brave enough to accept the change that is happening. The changes, whether they be self created or imposed are what is helping me to see who I really am. Happy or sad, I look forward to the day I see me, the me that you see, looking back at me and feeling good about whomever is gazing into the bathroom mirror for the 17,365th time.
#thelieswechosetolivewith
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