not into it

i was one of those babies, of whom i have heard and witnessed a number, who are entranced by the sight of their own face. my brother was the same way--we used to hold him up to the bathroom mirror and laugh incessantly at the subtle changes of expression he would present to himself. he would look straight into his own eyes, and the communications of his face were as obvious as those in a silent film:

"oh! i'm sorry, i didn't know anyone else was here."

"gee...i don't mean to be untoward, but you are arrestingly good-looking."

"oh, stop! you flatter me."

"your smile is simply enchanting."

"what luck to have met you here...i'll remember this encounter all my life."

to be fair, he was a devastatingly cute baby. we all worshiped him for his good looks--maybe that is why my dad spends so much time smacking him down as he matures.

but i was not a good-looking adolescent. i had blunt features and limp hair and an undeveloped body perpetually dressed in a big t-shirt and soccer shorts, both in saturated primary colors. (the same colors, you ask? or different? would either way make it any better?) i knew i wasn't good-looking and played to great effect a character that didn't care about it.

nonetheless, while we were holding my baby brother, with his useless feet propped against the bathroom counter, and laughing at his existential antics, my eyes continually slid over to examine my own reflection.

"this is what it looks like when i'm laughing."

then would come a break, in which some nether corner of my mind adjusted the attitude i had just encountered, like an artist playing with the pose of his model.

"so with my chin angled this way...just a little so no one will notice...but when i do that my hair curves around my brow and i look sort of mysterious..."

and inevitably i would practice these poses later, in front of my own mirror.

maybe my sisters are better-adjusted people because they shared a room and didn't have as much solitary leisure. no matter what you're doing when you're alone, you tend to be distracted by the fact that you're doing it. you know what i mean? your great virtue in studying, for example, the wrenchingly pitiful sound of your own crying.

the consciousness of how i look has always been the greatest foe to my self-expression. "The more parts of yourself you can afford to forget the more charm you have," according to F. Scott Fitzgerald...and, by the way, "When a girl feels that she’s perfectly groomed and dressed she can forget that part of her. That’s charm." i guess i've always known these things, instinctively--not to say you didn't; good writing tells the world what it already knows. some people are self-conscious about how loud their voice is, or that they don't have a college education, and assume those things must stick out a mile. for me, it's my physical features that stick out a mile, that i suppose everyone must be looking at and thinking, "what in the world helps her get out of bed in the morning?"

ugh. it's just how it is. i feel i could bear anything if i just looked all right, and that my faults would all be a little more forgivable. i want to forget about myself; i try to do it. that's why i like to stay busy. that's why i like to play characters.

we've all got this character inside us that we're pretty sure we could be, if it weren't for this one thing holding us down, that makes us available to all the other petty impedimentia. we're born with an instinctive motivation for flight, and also with a ball-and-chain. is it an excuse? is it a demon? is it a gift in disguise?

if it went away, would we all be better people, or would we be a world of Narcissuses? would we really be able to forget ourselves?