Mirror Mirror

Oh man, What happened? Look at all those wrinkles. Geez, there’s another one. When did that one show up? What’s that? Gray hair! You’re looking old. It’s downhill from here. Caffeine. I need caffeine.

What do you say to yourself in the morning the first time you see your reflection in a mirror?

I found some photos of my Mom looking sleek, slender and polished. The first time I saw them I carried them around like a trophy pretending they reflected the mother I knew growing up.

In the photo she appears elegant with blood red lipstick accentuating her full lips. Her hair is pulled back in a chignon, and she wears an attractive form fitting dress on her slender body.

But the photo is an anomaly, perhaps taken when she and Dad first met – before I was born. This is a woman I did not know, and had never met.

When I look at those photos, I wonder what happened to that woman. Where did she go? What changed her?

The mother I knew and loved was well-fleshed and plump. There was a lot to hug. And I liked hugging her. She was warm, generous, joyous, big-hearted, and kind to others.

As a child, I watched Mom get dressed mornings in front of the bathroom mirror. She liked to talk out loud to herself.

I am so fat, she said. This is disgusting. She frowned at her body. Holding her tummy she said, Oh Becky, I need to do something about this. Then she pinched some of her curves.

I didn’t know what to say. The reflection I saw was of a radiant person who was warm and always upbeat. I loved her smile and looked forward to seeing her every day.

It surprised me that we didn’t see the same reflection in the mirror.

After my parents retired, I often accompanied Mom to the mall to help find clothes for the cruises they took. I’d gather a colorful assortment of outfits for her to try in sizes; XL, XXL, 1X, 2X or 3X. It was never really clear to me what size she was, but it was bigger than L.

We’d hole up in the dressing room and prepare to move through the stack.

As soon as her body was exposed to the mirror she’d start.

Oh, my gosh I'm fat.

I’d heard those words come out of her mouth thousands of times, the vitriol directed to her reflection.

Turning to the clothes, I said, Try this Mom. I held up a bright shirt splashed with orange and yellow.

I can’t wear that, she said. I’ll look like a clown.

Ignoring her nay saying, I pushed her arms up and pulled the shirt over her head. It got stuck below her chest, just above her stomach. Her arms were squished into the sleeves like taut sausages.

No, no, too small, she said. Get it off. She glanced at the mirror. I look like an orange hippo.

Then she started laughing, infecting me with her laughter. The more I tried to hold back, the faster the laughs came. Tears rolled down my cheeks to the corners of my mouth, where I tasted the salty liquid.

Attempting to help pull the shirt off, it got caught over her face. You’re stuck, I said.

She tried to wiggle out of the shirt. I wasn’t much help at that moment. Laughing had turned my limbs to flimsy spaghetti noodles.

I can’t breathe, she said.

Well, if you'd stop making me laugh I could help.

I peeled the shirt up past her nose. We were eye to eye, and simultaneously burst into another round of laughter.

That one’s definitely a NO, she said.

I looked at the price tag. Yeah, way overpriced.

Once free of the orange top Mom sat relaxed on the dressing room chair. That felt so great to laugh with you, she said. We always have fun together.

She turned to the mirror.

What am I going to do? Look at this fat.

I picked up a shiny sequined black gown. Here, try this one on Mom.

Life. It’s yours. Go all in.

What’s your daily script?

Mom authored her story. She wrote the script and performed the main lead in her show. If I could rewrite her morning dialogue, it would've read like this;

Mom looks at herself in the mirror, WOW! Look at me Becky. What a marvel I am. So much to love. I have fantastic curves, and I have the perfect *‘Rubenesque’ body.

*Rubenesque is a term used to describe the full bodied women Flemish artist Peter Paul Rubens was fond of painting – Not the Barbie kind of full bodied woman. More like Mae West, Kirstie Alley or Shelley Winters.