you oughtta hear the mirror in my house

She's got a foul ass mouth. And the other day, when I was getting ready, I tried on 7 outfits. And that tall Sasquatch of mine, he came to the door, and he peered his beardy face around it, and stood there all swoony, looking like no one had ever been more comfortable in his own skin. He saw that I was in outfit number seven and said, "You know we are throwing this party, right?"  I huffed and mumbled my way out of #7, and into #8.

He went back to the living room, and I could hear him stand up, sit down, stand up again. And I shouted, "I'm sorry, it's just that self-loathing makes all my clothes fit weird." But the truth is, self-loathing has been shrinking my clothes for way. too. long.

And that mouthy little mirror, she's the mean girl at the party. So, about a year ago, I started giving myself these creepy little video pep talks. Things sucked. I sucked. It was a way to confront my endless distaste with my over emotive facial expressions, while circumventing the idea of participating in actual self-talk. I imagined having a conversation with a friend I loved dearly. I imagined being confronted with my own set of problems from an outside source, and then gave myself the best, most loving advice I could.

Then, I watched it back. Paused once in the middle to yak, because, seriously? And then watched it again. And again.  I watched the way I spoke. The way I raised my eyebrows, the sweetness I'd allowed for this person that I loved. I almost didn't believe it was me. But then, who else could it be?

I grew up hating my body. I despised the way pants that didn't want my wearing them, strained against my skin and left red marks. These were a sign of rejection. I hated the squeak of my voice, the perpetual optimism.

But now? I'm twenty three years old for christ's sake. I've lived a thousand lives. Kicked cervical cancer and blindness in the face. I graduated high school when I was sixteen. I'm a talented writer, a good friend, and sometimes I even smell nice. And I still let that mirror talk to me like I'm the dowdy vanilla ice cream sidekick in a 90's rom-com.
I could hand you forty freudian reasons for this gross over-analysis of the feud between my stomach and the elastic waistband of my minnie mouse skirts, but body-hate is body hate. I have both a physical aversion to and a morbid fascination with vanity and most of the time, I cringe at the idea of posing for a camera, of playing in front of it.

Yet this once removed courtesy, this gift of myself to myself, it started to change things. I started recording myself doing things I loved. Practicing monologues. Telling bad jokes. Watching a clip that I love and giggling to the point of hysterics.

And when it's me, when I remember that I'm watching Rachel, sometimes she has no top lip, and her gums are showing, and that is too much breast showing, and why doesn't her hair ever look put together? And heels, Rach? Really? That giant scar on your foot from when you got hit by the car? Well, it doesn't do your beefy calves any favors.

But when it's someone else, when I can forget for a second that that's me? I want to be that girl. She looks so damn happy.


And yeah, that's a lot of cleave. And yeah, a guy once told me that I'd be damn near perfect if I had a top lip, and yeah, sometimes, my catty mirror sounds an awfully lot like him. But I sometimes get so wrapped up in the magic of my own life, that I forget my entire body. And that girl is a disembodied golden light against the plain white walls of whatever rental she happens to be living in. And she's more than a wrinkled nose, she is the joy that wrinkled it.

And she doesn't let self-loathing borrow her clothes.