Mirrors

Recently, I looked in the mirror and was surprised by what I saw.

I was pretty.

I know that’s not what we should think of ourselves. I know that physical appearance has no bearing on mental faculties or the worth of one’s soul. Being pretty isn’t the goal. Being a good person is. I drank that kool-aid a long time ago. It’s what’s on the inside that counts. All of that. And I’m not here to belittle that.

For most of my life, I think, I didn’t think about my appearance. My hair did what it wanted to do and mostly I wanted it back in a pony tail or a bun. It was heavy and in the way. And I never looked at my face and so it could do what it wanted. If it wanted to have a pimple or two, I was happy to pick at it and then forget about it. I wasn’t looking at it. And as for the rest of me… well, I have nice collar bones and I like my feet and everything else in the middle, as long as it wasn’t in my way, I didn’t much care. I have a brain, which might not be as useful as I think it is, but that’s what mattered to me. I could use my brain and carry around my body and that was fine.

I guess I missed out on girl-talk, where you learned about cute bras and matching clothes and shoes, or whatever it is girls talk about. I didn’t pay attention to makeup or nail polish or diets or muscle-group-specific exercises. I never learned how to get rid of that upper arm fat or back fat or how to tighten my abs or glutes. I didn’t care to find out what colors were my colors or how to fix my hair or whether I should go heavy on the eyeliner or not. I don’t read Cosmo. I don’t look for makeup tips. I get a minor panic attack when people talk about going out and I realize that I have no clothing that’s appropriate for bar hopping and I have no idea what to do with my face.

All my heroes, how they looked was the least important thing about them. Princess Leia led a rebellion and she spent half the first movie in the same dress, without ever redoing her hair. Aerin, from The Hero and the Crown, she’s specifically not as pretty as Galana, and for good reason. Samantha Carter, from Stargate SG-1, who is the hero of my life that I don’t often talk about, she spends her days in a man’s uniform, with short hair and a fierce independence. I don’t even know how to describe these women and their looks because I’m too busy thinking about their actions and adventures and thoughts and that’s how it should be. It shouldn’t matter how you look. It should matter what you do.

At some point, I got distracted from that. I looked at my clothes and realized they weren’t all that flattering to the body underneath them. I realized that the body underneath them could use some work now that I didn’t have ballet and swim practice to keep it in some semblance of shape. I stared at my eyebrows and realized that they dominated my face and that my eyes weren’t even and that if I put some color on my face, my skin evened out and my eyes popped. If I cut my hair or even just parted it differently, it framed my face and suddenly, I wasn’t some preteen stuck in an adult’s body. I belonged. I was using my looks to my advantage.

But it never quite panned out. I had a couple of articles of clothing that made me look great. I had a style or two that made me happy with my hair. But I was convinced it was putting lipstick on a pig. I was plain and all the makeup in the world wasn’t going to fix that. It was my laugh and my wit and my stories that were going to win someone, if there was ever someone to win. I’ve been told that I have a beautiful soul and that was enough beauty for me. 

So I gave up again. A couple better-fitting bras and I could go back to t-shirts. My hair had grown out enough to be pulled back. Glasses or contacts, it didn’t matter. My eyes were fine as is. I mean, your body is just a meat suit and someone who’s only attracted to that has a while to go. Someone who judges you based on just your appearance has another thing coming. Wear what makes you feel good. All that matters is that you’re confident in yourself.

Which is why I was so surprised to look in the mirror and be pleased with what I saw. I had been talking to a friend about appearance on a  roadtrip and she had said, “I don’t know who told you what, but you’re beautiful.” And I laughed it off because that’s what you’re supposed to say, right? You’re supposed to tell someone they’re beautiful even if they’re plain because we all deserve to think that we’re lovely. I know I’m plain. I know that I’m not winning any pageants. But looking in that mirror, the same mirror that I’d seen myself in everyday in middle school and high school and some of the summers during college, I could see that I grew into my body. I fit my face. And I was happy, because I was pretty.

A wise group of writers once said that you are beautiful when you do beautiful things. If you do beautiful things, then you are beautiful. It’s a simple calculation. I don’t know that I’ve done anything beautiful recently. It seems that my standards have been raised in that regard. But I don’t mind seeing what I see in the mirror and I think that’s a step in the right direction. Maybe it’ll lend me some much-needed confidence as I try to figure out my next step in life. Because I see people, you know, I see people who look different from me who are doing beautiful things and I can’t help but think that I’m not worth it, that someone who looks like me can’t be taken seriously, can’t belong where they are.

But I’m wrong. 

I’m downright cute. 

And while that’s not going to take me anywhere or make me do anything great, it’s also not going to hurt me right now. 

So I’m okay with that.