It seems like when one looks into a mirror one should be able to have an accurate reflection of one's being. But I have found that to not be true. I think the psychologists call it body dysmorphia or something like that. A fancy way of saying that how we see ourselves is seldom accurately reflected in that two dimensional reflective piece of glass.
Thirty some years ago, the reflection showed an insecure young girl with geek glasses, braces, few friends, great report cards and a habit of reading to escape the real world. Just what I was escaping from, I'm not sure. The mirror showed a girl who scorned anything resembling popular, cool, or in. Turned 180 degrees away from it, even if deep inside she wanted it or liked it. Who reveled in A's, the National Merit Scholars, and the Knowledge Bowl team.. Was always told, "you're skinny enough to be a model." No one ever said "pretty enough". I'm not sure why that always bothered me, but it did.
In college, it helped to have a budget controlled diet. Now I tried harder to fit in. I was always the "make-over" candidate, but I never really made the transition. I did gain a social life, but looking back it was somewhat self destructive. Always chasing the wrong guy, sobbing on the shoulder of the ones I should have been with. And yet the girl in the mirror couldn't see anything but a fun house distortion.
Forward three decades, I still have zits and feelings of insecurities and an additional 130 pounds. It's not that I want to be part of the right group-maybe just be respected by co-workers or subordinates. I still don't fit in. This time around, I do want to fit in. At least most of the time. Perhaps they can't respect me because I don't have very much respect for them and I don't know how to do that because their worlds are so far from me.
Back then I didn't see how little flesh was on my frame. Today I have a problem seeing how there is too much fat on that frame. I've known intellectually. The scale is proof. The Just My Size jeans are the proof. But that part of the brain that distorts my personal reality doesn't get it. Likes to rely on denial and excuses. Can't figure out why I can quit the vodka but not the sugar? Why I feel the need to reward myself with unhealthy food if I'm in a good mood? Or drown my sorrows with coke and chocolate? And then tell myself that it's better than a quart of vodka?
Where does the motivation go? The energy of the twenties? How does the self-deprecation seep into the soul? How does the creak of the joints get so loud? How do you reclaim that self? Recapture the ideals and body of the twenties, with the wisdom and income of the high end of forties?
Thirty some years ago, the reflection showed an insecure young girl with geek glasses, braces, few friends, great report cards and a habit of reading to escape the real world. Just what I was escaping from, I'm not sure. The mirror showed a girl who scorned anything resembling popular, cool, or in. Turned 180 degrees away from it, even if deep inside she wanted it or liked it. Who reveled in A's, the National Merit Scholars, and the Knowledge Bowl team.. Was always told, "you're skinny enough to be a model." No one ever said "pretty enough". I'm not sure why that always bothered me, but it did.
In college, it helped to have a budget controlled diet. Now I tried harder to fit in. I was always the "make-over" candidate, but I never really made the transition. I did gain a social life, but looking back it was somewhat self destructive. Always chasing the wrong guy, sobbing on the shoulder of the ones I should have been with. And yet the girl in the mirror couldn't see anything but a fun house distortion.
Forward three decades, I still have zits and feelings of insecurities and an additional 130 pounds. It's not that I want to be part of the right group-maybe just be respected by co-workers or subordinates. I still don't fit in. This time around, I do want to fit in. At least most of the time. Perhaps they can't respect me because I don't have very much respect for them and I don't know how to do that because their worlds are so far from me.
Back then I didn't see how little flesh was on my frame. Today I have a problem seeing how there is too much fat on that frame. I've known intellectually. The scale is proof. The Just My Size jeans are the proof. But that part of the brain that distorts my personal reality doesn't get it. Likes to rely on denial and excuses. Can't figure out why I can quit the vodka but not the sugar? Why I feel the need to reward myself with unhealthy food if I'm in a good mood? Or drown my sorrows with coke and chocolate? And then tell myself that it's better than a quart of vodka?Where does the motivation go? The energy of the twenties? How does the self-deprecation seep into the soul? How does the creak of the joints get so loud? How do you reclaim that self? Recapture the ideals and body of the twenties, with the wisdom and income of the high end of forties?
As Gavin DeGraw sings, "I don't want be anything other than me." Too bad I don't know who the hell that is.
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