I’m not being narcissist. I’m mentioning it because it’s not so very often the case. The Lady in the Mirror has looked a lot of things, ranging from utterly unremarkable, to stubborn, to ill-tempered, to flustered and worn out, to goofy, to unkempt and uncivilized–but, no, not so very often lovely.
I wonder why.
I wounder why I so often find myself unlovely. I wonder if I am changing, or my senses are. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror and see loveliness, I can’t help the thought that flashes across my mind. “What a waste.”
I don’t know; it would seem there would be someone else out there who could put it to better use, or someone who would have it admired more or displayed better. What is one supposed to do with loveliness?
I ignore it, mostly, myself–except for those fleeting glances while I wash my hands or brush my teeth. I suppose that’s part of why I feel oddly ill-suited for it. The pace of life doesn’t seem to leave me with a lot of time for contemplating my appearance, even if my mind will wander to it. But I can’t deny, either, the hidden story that we tell ourselves and hide too deeply to admit to nearly even ourselves–that we would like to imagine that someone is watching from a distance and admiring. That some day we’ll be discovered, in our ashes, or hat shop, or lowly secretary, or caring for the hurting, or whatever your fairytale has you doing, and that someone will see ourselves as much more wonderful than we see ourselves.