The Plight of Reflections
By Guest Writer Tess MacFarlane
What’s the first thing you do when you see yourself in a mirror? Do you smile, admire your outfit, fix your hair, or possibly pretend you’re on a talk show? Maybe this is a trick question–because it all could depend on what mirror you’re looking into. The mirror above my desk–where I can only see from the tops of my shoulders and upward–receives Academy Award acceptance speeches from me daily, while the mirror that stands in every single dressing room only sees my look of fear.
Up until fourth grade, I dressed purely for comfort. I was a chubby ten-year-old with crooked teeth, early acne, and a passion for not brushing my hair. My wardrobe consisted of long plaid shorts, a baggy tie-dye shirt, and a low ponytail. Looking back, my parents probably should have realized two things: 1) I am not straight, and 2) I was blissfully unaware of how others perceived me.
That blissful ignorance ended abruptly–as do many things when puberty begins—when my parents started to comment on how much I ate, girls gave advice on how I needed an Ivviva sports bra, and boys asked about “what happened to my face.” I tried not to care, but in those moments, I felt like everyone was more aware of my body than I was.
The biggest moment for me that year was when one of my close friends at the time brought me into the bathroom, punched me in the stomach, and asked why I was so fat. I genuinely crack up at that story now because it is so ridiculous and shows how uncreative little kids can be–if she called me a failed lesbian rugby player turned substitute teacher, I would be impressed, but all she did was call me fat. However, at that moment, I was mortified. So, I happily obliged the next time my mom offered to take my sister and me shopping. It is important to note that my older sister is tall, naturally blonde, extremely smart, and skinny. But, I remember going to Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade (for those who know, know) and standing in a Bloomingdales dressing room.
At this point, the small, mirrored-lined room, which felt like it could be turned into a solitary confinement cell at any given moment, was actually a place of opportunity. I wanted to reinvent myself. I harbored the idea that this could be my makeover montage moment that I had seen in so many movies–coming in chubby, frizzy, and uneducated, and leaving “beautiful.” However, the second I started to slide a pair of blue jeans up my legs, I was thrust back into reality–my montage cut short.
The pants couldn’t even make it over my knees.
I could feel my mom trying not to wince. Instead, she quickly got up and said she would be back with some bigger sizes. As the door shut, it felt like the cheesy background mall music simmered just enough for me to feel completely alone.
I was frozen in place, like Medusa’s victim, after realizing what she looked like to everyone else—and sequentially, turning herself to stone.
If someone asked me how I was doing at that moment, I would probably have replied with “tired” or “hungry,” anything that would provide a reason for the upset feeling in my stomach. But now, looking back, I know I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed by how I looked, embarrassed by how I needed to be put into a small room to see myself the way others did, and embarrassed that my mom witnessed all of it. All I wanted was to slip back on my comforting shield of the clothes I knew fit–those that had protected me for this long.
From then on, I was grouped in with my Dad– the two people in the family who didn’t like shopping. Now, as a twenty-one-year-old girl, I realize that the dressing room has become a place where you are forced to be completely surrounded by yourself, shocking you with the overwhelming feeling of what you look like. Granted, I believe that a shared trait in dressing rooms is bad lighting and a touch of claustrophobia, which, of course, affects the way you see yourself, but it is also one of the only times that you are able to see yourself from all angles, including the unnatural ones.
I realize that when I am in a dressing room now, I put my hand on my stomach and try to conceal myself under my carefully crafted outfit—armor—I have picked for the day. But after a few deep breaths, I stop to remind myself that dressing rooms are meant to be like the tiny spoons handed out for samples at ice cream shops. You are meant not to like everything you try, some flavors might not sit right with you, and you might even realize you’re just not in the mood for ice cream at all.
Clothing should be a way to express ourselves; it can either be a shield or a window (sometimes, the shield shows more about a person than the window). Our minds meld what our eyes see. What my body looks like and feels completely depends on how I am emotionally that day, allowing me to detangle my perceptions of self-worth with my body and what it is feeling or looking like. However, even when I tell myself over and over again to separate feelings from my body, of course, there are days when I fail to listen, and that’s okay! I cannot expect myself to suddenly break free from years of globalized body propaganda, but I can start with small reminders.
The only thing that makes dressing rooms scary to me is the body reflected back in mirrors because, other than that, they are just weirdly small rooms that make you want Wetzel Pretzels. I don’t hate dressing rooms and shopping, it just takes more mental effort now to practice what I preach, as cheesy as it sounds. Seeing everything all at once is hard, and it will always be a consistent difficulty to love every corner of myself, but I know the people around me don’t notice the small dimples or extra few pounds I might have put on in the winter, and at the end of the day, who the hell cares.
So, the next time you go into a dressing room, do a silly dance or something that breaks the fourth wall between you and yourself, because at that moment you are your only audience, so if a pair of jeans doesn’t fit…no one will ever know! I always liked dresses more, anyway.
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