The Man in the Mirror

The bathroom light comes on and we step into view. Here we go again… I’m getting sick of this. I mimic his movements as he pulls at the skin around his belly. He holds out his arms to full wingspan and shakes them; loose skin hangs a bit and jiggles. We sigh defeatedly and hang our heads. As he’s looking at his feet, surely criticizing their size and the shape of his toes, I glare at him – refusing to imitate his actions.

This has become a sickening routine for my body in the physical form. He stares at me, hates what he sees, and takes his frustrations out by hurling insults at me – expecting me to toss them right back. But I like me. I have never noticed anything wrong with the image that stares at his imperfections, and I was getting tired of his abuse.

“I walk on feet that rival the size of the Titanic,” he groans as he throws his head back and stares at the ceiling. I resume the act of emulation. He stares at me again and frowns. We pull at the lines in our forehead – how can he expect the absence of frown lines when all he does is scowl? We throw our hands down at our sides and poke at our thighs. “Cellulite,” he whimpers and I lip sync while secretly gritting my teeth.

“You just wait until I can afford some plastic surgery,” he threatens us while pointing a finger directly at my forehead. He moves from the mirror to grab his extremely expensive face cream, but I remain.

You’ll never be happy. Can’t you see that? Nope. Probably like you can’t see that there’s NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU!

He returns to the reflection, applying globs of cream to his face, and I instantaneously join in. After thoroughly saturating our skin, we begin to pull our face back at the corner of our eyes. I expect a new batch of insults, but instead he looks at me petrified. I must not have replicated the disdain from his eyes. In fact, I distinctly remember rolling mine. He cautiously takes two steps back, and I follow. He takes one step forward, and I do the same. I follow him, move for move, through a series of odd motions to suppress his suspicions.

“Disgusting!” we shout at each other, veins bulging from our necks and foreheads. “Pathetic and ugly piece of shit! No wonder no one loves you.” He proceeds to flip me off but is shocked when I don’t reciprocate his gesture.

I simply cross my arms and glare at him.

“What’s going on?” he questions me, “How is this…?” he rubs his eyes and looks at me again. I have not moved. “I must be going mad…”

“You are mad,” I respond straightforwardly. “This is the only time that I’m gonna freely give you the same disrespect that you dish out to me daily. You are an idiot. There is nothing wrong with how you look. Maybe you get your rocks off by insulting yourself, but self-degredation isn’t really my thing. Stop abusing me, you son of a bitch, or I’ll make sure every time you look in the mirror you’ll long for the days when I was the reflection staring back.”

He steps closer to the mirror, close enough that his nose is almost touching the glass. I slowly imitate his movement, then wink and smile. He screams and slips on the bathrom rug as he runs from the bathroom. I remain in the mirror chuckling.

I think I got my point across.