mirror mirror on the wall

I have always had a love hate relationship with my mirror, mostly hate. At a very young age I began to question and sometimes fear what that large rectangular piece of glass had to say.
I remember when I realized I was ugly. I was in first grade, and one of my friends was to have a very special birthday party. A local television station had a cartoon-oriented show that they aired on Saturdays. Cartoons would be shown, and in between the cartoons the host would talk with children who sat in rows on bleachers. Caroline’s dad had managed to book a show for her birthday. I was so excited. It was a show I watched every Saturday, and I couldn’t wait to be on television. I even practiced: “Hello, my name is Laurie, and I am 6 years old.” It was going to be wonderful.
We arrived at the station, and one of the stage managers told us to sit by height. Lucky me, I ended up sitting on the top row of the small risers, directly in the middle. The host always talked to kids in the middle. After we were all seated, we waited quietly for the host to come in.
He looked even better in person. He wore a blue suit with a crazy tie, and he smiled a lot. But then I saw him wrinkle his brow. He looked at me for a long moment and then turned his gaze toward Jane, who was sitting on the end of the first row.
“Sweetheart,” he said to me. “Could I have you switch with that young lady over there? I think it would look more balanced.”
You should know something about Jane. She was petite with a very small nose, and her hair was cut into the latest Dorothy Hammel haircut. You should also know something about me. I was the tallest, skinniest kid in my class. My teeth were crooked, and my pointy glasses sat solidly atop my…generous nose.
So, at the host’s request, I switched places with Jane and tried to smile as he talked with her during the show. A few weeks later, I watched the episode, and Jane looked great. Me? I wasn’t even there.
There have been times in my life when I have made peace with the glass, even embraced it. But now, as medication has wreaked havoc with my weight and my complexion, and as I begin to see the evidence of my forty-one years, once again I avoid the glass. And once again, I wish I was Jane.