Reflection

Content warning: body/weight insecurity

The mirror glares at me. “Are you sure about that?” it asks, with bared teeth. I sigh, my shoulders falling slack in the skintight red dress I had the bad idea to try on. “Well, I thought I was,” I say, more to myself than to the now snickering mirror as I shrug off the hideous, fat-hugging scrap of material. 

Back to square one. I’ll be the first to admit that it's been a while since I last went out, but I don’t remember it being so hard. Then again, I don’t remember having to argue with my mirror before, either. I stare at my reflection. Surely this isn’t right? Surely I haven’t always looked like this? 

“Oh please, you stare at me more than enough to know that this is exactly what you look like. Stop the act, insecurity isn’t cute anymore,” my mirror hisses.

“I’m sorry, but let’s not forget that my insecurity is why you have a job. So why don’t you just shut it and help me.” 

“Fine. It’s simple. Don’t go.”

I don’t know why I bothered asking in the first place. 

I mean, that’s the obvious answer, right? Just don’t go. Skip the whole ordeal. Do what I’ve done for the past year and a half and stay in. Watch a movie. Read a book. Set a good example for all the other 20-year-olds out there and make my mom proud.

Ignore the fact that Ben finally texted me for the first time ever. 

Ignore the blush that crept up my cheeks the moment I saw his message. 

Ignore the frantic ba-bump of the stupid lump of meat in my chest the moment I think about going to a party with Ben. Ben’s party. Ben’s 21st. Ben’s girfri--

“Oh please,” it interrupts my thoughts, stopping the blush that was slowly but surely making its way up my neck in its tracks. “You have less of a chance with Ben than I have of growing legs and dating him myself.”

“Excuse you?” I rip a pair of jeans out of my closet and haphazardly stuff my leg into it, nearly toppling over. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Simple. Look at you.”

I pause, one leg stuck halfway in the jeans, my hands still clutching the waistband. I stare at myself. Bent over like this, face slightly red, one leg in and one leg out… I quickly straighten up and drop the waistband. The jeans halfheartedly attempt to stick onto my calf, before slowly sliding down to the floor.

“Yeah? What’s your point?”

“Well. For starters, your underwear doesn’t match.”

I give the waistband of my favourite, faded, floral pink panties a flick. It’s not the best, and sure it doesn’t exactly go with my red, strapless bra, but it’s not like anyone will know. What does it matter if they’re a bit old and frayed and slightly mismatched? 

“So what? It’s not like anyone is going to see them.”

“And what about that muffin top. Or are you hoping no one will see that either?”

“That’s uncalled for” I huff, abandoning my reflection and refocusing on tugging on the jeans that have now slid all the way to the floor and lie puddled around my ankle. “Besides, I look healthy.”

“As healthy as a pound cake”

“Some people like...curves”

“Oh, so that’s what we’re calling fat these days.”

“I don’t need to listen to this!” I finally snap. “I’ve endured enough of your mocking for a lifetime. Can’t you see that I’m nervous enough as is? I haven’t been to any stupid party in ages, let alone Ben’s 21st, and the last thing I need right now is you psyching me out!”

It’s quiet.

For the first time the mirror doesn’t have an answer, and I swear I can hear it sulking. In spite of myself, I feel guilt start creeping in. I lower my voice. “So. If you don’t plan on being helpful, please, I’m begging you, just...let me get ready in peace.” 

Again, the mirror is quiet. I hold my breath and zip up my jeans. I don’t want to admit it, but the mirror was right about the muffin top. I sigh and watch my ribcage expand and contract. I wonder how it’s possible to simultaneously be overweight and be staring at my own bones. I feel nauseous. Maybe there’s a reason why I haven’t been invited to a party in so long. Maybe there’s a reason why I spend all of my nights alone. Maybe Ben invited me out of pity. Maybe...maybe…

“Maybe you're right,” I say as I slump onto my bed. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for social interactions. Maybe I should just...cancel.” I bury my face in my hands. I guess hiding has become a habit, even when it’s just me and my mirror in the room. If Ben could see me now, what would he think? If I could see me now…My face gets warm. An embarrassing tear makes its way through my fingers. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid, I turn to my bedside table and reach for my phone.

“Ahem… what about the black skirt?” A small voice pipes up from across the room. I turn around, trying to ignore how red and wet my face has become as I stare at my own reflection. “What was that?” I ask, my voice somehow hoarse. 

“The...the black skirt. With the sweater you wore last Tuesday. I think-” 

I can physically hear the words getting stuck in the mirror’s throat. “I think that might look nice” it says, suddenly speaking so fast that I am barely able to make out the words.

“You really think so?” 

“Yeah. But you better hurry, you still have to do your make-up.”

In the next 15 minutes I don’t speak much. I follow orders, I squeeze into tights, I wipe the dust off of my make-up kit, I iron my old black skirt, I say a few hundred thank you’s, and finally the mirror goes quiet. The smell of triumph hangs in the air, along with the Chanel perfume that I have been saving for a special occasion. 

“There,” I swear I can hear it smiling. “How do you feel?”

“Like throwing up,” I say. The butterflies in my stomach haven’t ceased yet, and the palms of my hands tingle. “I can’t feel my arms”

For the first time ever, it laughs. 

“Well, you look great. You’ll knock ‘em off their feet.”

I smile. My words seem to have been used up completely. My mouth is too dry to speak, my body for some reason deciding to send every ounce of moisture it has directly to the palms of my hands. 

The high pitch chiming of the doorbell almost knocks me off of my feet. “Well, I guess that’s my ride. I’ll see you soon.” I wave, and I see myself waving back.

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

I close the bedroom door behind me and rush off down the hallway. Nervous or not, chubby or not, tonight is my night and I’m going to give it all that I’ve got.