Mirror, Mirror Off the Wall

by Kjerstin Gruys

  To this day I’m convinced that Michael knew exactly what I wanted him to tell me, but also knew better than to feed into my obsessions. Or maybe he just liked to see me squirm.

  The following day, my curiosity escalated to the point at which a blurry image of myself (reflected in my apartment building’s brushed steel elevator door) became pathetically intriguing. Yes, random reflections were against my rules, but I couldn’t resist. I stared at this blurry reflection for at least two straight minutes while waiting for the elevator. I felt a bit guilty, but I imagine that the blurred image I saw of myself was about as satisfying as Nicorette feels to most trying-to-quit smokers. Here’s what I learned: My hair was still blond, my six-year-old Banana Republic blazer still fit, and I still existed. Good news on all counts, right?

  Later that day I managed to lock myself out of the apartment.

  Clearly, despite the time I’d spent getting away from myself, I was not yet benefiting from expanding cognitive resources.

  I implored myself to be patient. After all, this was still an adjustment period (I hoped!). But I worried that I might be destined to spend more time wondering what I looked like than I had spent checking myself out in the mirror before the project started!

  I couldn’t know the answer yet, but in the meantime I celebrated smaller victories: getting out of the house in half the time I’d taken before; saving money; finding myself lost in work or play for large chunks of time without feeling the urge to look at—or for—myself in the mirror; getting in touch with my unself-conscious self. In these ways, life without mirrors was slowly becoming freeing.

  In his book On Self and Social Organization, one of sociology’s most famous theorists, Charles Horton Cooley, develops the aptly phrased (for my purposes) theory of the looking-glass self. Cooley’s theory proposes that our sense of self is forged through our imagination of the way we appear in the eyes of others. In other words, we depend on interactions with others to provide feedback, telling us both who we are and how we should feel about ourselves.

  Using mirrors as both metaphor and tools to explain how we see ourselves through other people, Cooley wrote the following in his book Human Nature and the Social Order:

  A social self of this sort might be called the reflected or looking glass self:

  “Each to each a looking-glass

  Reflects the other that doth pass.”

  As we see our face, figure, and dress in the glass, and are interested in them because they are ours, and pleased or otherwise with them according as they do or do not answer to what we should like them to be; so in imagination we perceive in another’s mind some thought of our appearance, manners, aims, deeds, character, friends, and so on . . .

  Thus, even when we look into a mirror, our understanding of what we see is fundamentally social because it is mediated by reactions to us that we have seen in people we spend time with. As Cooley aptly puts it elsewhere in his book, “The thing that moves us to pride or shame is not the mere mechanical reflection of ourselves, but . . . the imagined effect of this reflection upon another’s mind.”

  This theory speaks volumes to how mirrors themselves contribute to our self-images. On the one hand, in the purist form of Cooley’s theory, mirrors are wholly unnecessary for understanding ourselves, so long as we have other people around. If the people we spend time with see us (and treat us) with love, affection, and approval, we will love, have affection for, and approve of ourselves. If the people we spend time with see us (and treat us) with disdain, disrespect, and condescension . . . well, you get the picture.

  On the other hand, mirrors do allow us to actually see (at least in reverse reflection) what others are viewing when they look upon us. Thus, they add another step of self-awareness—and tool for self-adjustment—in this process of self-understanding.

  Nicole Sault, editor of the book Many Mirrors: Body Image and Social Relations, extends the metaphor of what she calls the human mirror to ponder, “What if we had no mirrors, photographs, or videos to show us how we look? How would we see ourselves?” (Great question, Nicole! Somebody should try to find out!) She continues, saying, “Despite the fact that we have material objects to show us reflections of our selves, we are also social mirrors to each other, and we rely on the reactions of others to learn how we look and who we are.”

  We rely on the reactions of others to learn how we look and who we are.

  Reading this made me pause. The theory made complete sense, and yet it didn’t feel true. How much had I ever trusted the reactions of others for my sense of self? How many kind words spoken by loved ones had I dismissed in favor of my own, much harsher, critiques? The answer, I knew, was that I tended to stubbornly hang on to my own ideas about who I was, who I ought to be, and how I ought to improve myself. My reflection had been my frenemy, but now that she was gone, perhaps it was time for me to start paying more attention to what my friends and family had been telling me all along.

  FOUR

  June

  HOW I (RE)DISCOVERED TRUST AND LEARNED TO STOP SECOND-GUESSING COMPLIMENTS

  Both within the family and without, our sisters hold up our mirrors: our images of who we are and of who we can dare to be.

  ELIZABETH FISHEL

  IF I’D BEEN ASKED ON THE DAY I STARTED MY NO-MIRRORS PROJECT whether or not I generally trusted my friends, my family, my fiancé, or even the average person one might run into on the street, I would have answered with a resounding “Yes!” I thought of myself as being, perhaps, even more trustful than the average Jane.

  Growing up, my mother—a developmental psychologist who specialized in achievement orientation in early adolescence—used to always tell my siblings and me, “Positive expectations, positive results!” to describe her parenting philosophy. This personal mantra was my mother’s way of saying if you trust people to be good and do their best, they’ll be more likely to do so.

  I’ve always looked up to my mom, so I’ve carried her wisdom with me, priding myself in looking for the best in people and expecting the best as well. I take pains to treat my students like smart, capable and morally sound adults, and am rarely disappointed in them; I ask perfect strangers to watch my belongings while I run to the restroom in coffee shops, and have never lost a latte, much less a laptop; I consistently vote in favor of social policies that provide resources and safety nets for the poor, and have never felt worried or angry about the possibility that underprivileged people might be taking advantage of the system (another cherished mantra from my mom: “Always remember, people do the best they can with what they have!”). In other words, I’m a trusting kind of gal. I really, actually, genuinely, seriously trust people.

  And yet, the greatest challenge I faced during my year without mirrors was learning how to let go of control, to allow myself to trust.

  It all started with something fairly simple: a shopping trip.

  • • •

  ON THE FIRST DAY OF JUNE, I CAUGHT MYSELF STARING AT the curtain covering my bathroom mirror. Unlike other days, when I usually tried to envision myself looking back at me from behind the curtain, this time I was actually staring at the curtain itself. It wasn’t really even a curtain, just a navy blue bedsheet that Michael had (lovingly) MacGyvered into a quasi-curtain by draping it from the light fixture above our bathroom sink. Because we were subletting, I’d felt too nervous to put up proper curtains, which would have required a curtain rod and several forbidden holes in the wall. Our solution was very practical, but it was also very ugly. This wouldn’t do. Michael’s mom, Sherry, was visiting in less than a week, and I didn’t want our apartment to look shabby.

  Such began my very first mirror-free shopping adventure.

  I headed out for what I thought would be a quick trip to San Francisco’s downtown Ross store—you know, Ross of the “Dress for Less” variety. (The “Dress for Less” lingo should have been my first clue that the trip was unlikely to end with
curtains alone.)

  After walking into Ross, I attempted a beeline to the home goods section of the store, which was in the back corner of its third floor. Of course, along the way, I had to peruse—er, I mean traverse—three separate floors of clothes. (Even bees have to stop and smell the roses sometimes, right?) Even with my eyes directed downward to avoid all of the mirrors on the shop walls, a poster advertising “New Arrivals!” caught my attention. With eagle-eyed precision, I spied one of my personal retail adventure homing beacons: hangtags from one of my favorite clothing brands dangling off a scintillating display of discounted tops.

  Upon sight of the hangtags, I made a snap decision and headed over to the “New Arrivals!” rack to start digging. With clothing sizes so unstandardized, I had to work my way through everything ranging from XS to XL, all the while scoping styles, speculating on size, feeling fabrics, surveying silhouettes, and computing costs. It had been more than two months since I’d stepped foot in a clothing store, and I’d really missed it. Besides, I wanted to make sure I had some cute clothes to wear for when Michael’s mom was in town. Sherry always looked so chic, and I didn’t want her to think of me as her dowdy future daughter-in-law! I emerged on the other side of the clothing rack with about a dozen potentials in hand and realized that, other than my not looking into any mirrors, things hadn’t been going much differently from how my usual shopping went—so far, anyway. But what would I do next?

  I held my potential purchases in my tiring arms, pondering whether or not I should venture forth to the land of mirrors (i.e., the fitting rooms). Or perhaps I ought to just buy everything (tempting) and try things on at home where I could get feedback from Michael or my sister? I’d never actually done that before, and the idea of trusting anyone else to decide what looked good on me was surprisingly nerve-racking. I wondered who I trusted more, my fiancé, my sister, or a random sales associate. Before I could worry too much about this question and what it said about me, basic math answered the quandary: I couldn’t afford to charge $400 on my debit card. I would have to filter out at least half of my options, if not more. I wasn’t sure exactly how I would do this, but off to the fitting rooms I went!

  Along the way, I came up with what I hoped would be a simple, three-part dressing room strategy. First, I would try to cover the mirror in my fitting room, but if this wasn’t possible, I would simply face away from it. (The trick, of course, would be to avoid seeing myself while deciding whether or not I could cover the mirror with the beach towel I’d just swiped from the home goods section.) Second, I would immediately disqualify anything that felt even remotely uncomfortable on my body. Finally, if too many garments remained after step two, I would ask for second opinions from the dressing room staff or from other shoppers. Mild panic ensued on this last point, but it seemed like it might be my only option.

  I proceeded. After getting a number card from an apathetic teenaged sales associate, I ducked into the nearest fitting room and hung everything at the back of the room to avoid having to face the mirror until I was ready. My eyes traveled along the edges of the mirror, and when I saw that it was hung flush with the wall, it became clear that hanging a towel on it would be difficult. So I turned back around, peeled off my T-shirt, and started trying things on.

  Three tops were too tight, and I managed to eliminate two more using my well-honed instincts for appropriate style-versus-price ratio. Twenty-five dollars for a basic T-shirt? Not unless it was cashmere! Only one top—a white tank displaying the delectable phrase YOU ARE BEA-UTI-FUL—was a definite yes, but I had six other shirts remaining in the undecided category. I poked my head out of the dressing room curtain to assess my options for a second opinion. No other shoppers were in sight. I felt relieved and disappointed at the same time.

  Wearing one of the maybes—a bright yellow T-shirt cut on an interesting A-line that I hoped was skimming over my Coca-Cola belly and hips—I shuffled out of my dressing room in bare feet to see if I could drag an opinion out of Ms. Dispassionate at the front. I was skeptical, unsure whether this would even be worth my time. What if she tells me I look great, but has really bad taste? How old is she, anyway? Can I trust fashion advice from a teenager? Is she wearing a cute outfit? I tried to remember.

  When I turned the corner, I saw that the young woman’s fashion sense was probably a tad flashier than my own (neon yellow bra straps peeked out from beneath her blue blouse—could this be the Ross employee dress code?). However, her clothes fit well and flattered her body. I knew that I had little to lose by asking, but I was nervous. I couldn’t remember ever asking a stranger for advice on my clothes. Well, I don’t trust just anyone’s opinion! I thought to myself as justification. But was that a good thing or a bad thing?

  What’s the worst thing that could happen? I asked myself. I then cringed inwardly when a few answers appeared: Well, she could persuade me to buy something that actually looks awful on me. How embarrassing would that be!? Or, even worse, what if she says something mean that would cause my self-esteem and body image to spiral out of control, causing me to panic and look at myself in the mirror in attempts to regain my sanity, only to discover that whatever mean thing she said was true? . . .

  My inner dialogue was getting a little out of hand. What was wrong with me? I reminded myself that I’d once worked in clothing stores and had always tried to give customers advice that fit their own tastes and sensibilities, even if they differed from mine. Just do it!

  After catching the young woman’s attention, distracting her from a listless stare into space, I asked, “Umm, does this top look okay?”

  She blinked, looked at me for a split second, and said, “Sure.” She turned back to her listless stare, and I grumpily turned back to my fitting room.

  Sure? That’s it? I thought. Sighing, I assessed the potential financial damage and decided to just buy the remaining seven shirts and bring them home. I’d figure out my next steps from there.

  I felt mostly pleased by my choices, but not being able to see myself wearing them was terribly unsatisfying. The anticipation that had built up during my hunt through the sales racks remained unfulfilled, like a glaring “TO BE CONTINUED . . .” announcement at the end of a suspenseful TV show. Realizing that I wouldn’t be able to see myself in the mirror for another nine months was tantamount to receiving a second message announcing that the TV show in question was actually being canceled.

  I thought to myself, Shit. Is this how I’m going to feel on my wedding day? The prospect was depressing. I needed to get myself the heck out of Ross. I’d deal with my wedding anxieties another time. To make matters worse, I’d spent almost $250, with only $15 going toward the new curtains for my mirror at home. I couldn’t keep everything, so I would need to find some way to decide which shirts would stay and which to return.

  Asking Michael for help felt particularly unwise—not only is the love of my life severely color-blind, but he is also somewhat fashionchallenged. (One of the first things I did upon becoming Michael’s “official” girlfriend was to break the news to him that he’d been wearing the wrong size pants: a size too big in the waist and a size too short in the inseam. I’d been floored to learn that the current poor fit was actually the slightly improved result of a prior “floodwater pants” intervention on the part of his friends!) I’d asked Michael for clothing advice in the past, and his feedback was predictable: He’d tell me that everything looked equally fantastic, and then none-too-subtly suggest that I eliminate contenders based on price alone, keeping only the least expensive item or two. This approach worked fairly well from a purely economical standpoint, or if I wanted to hear that I looked cute even if I was wearing a potato sack, but it seemed like a poor strategy for stylish and expressive mirror-free dressing.

  I went through a mental checklist of all of my female friends, recalling times when we’d shopped together. Sally, the fashion designer I’d worked with at my first job out of college, was a shoo-in for cloth
ing advice, but she didn’t live in the area so couldn’t be of much help. Laila, another close friend from my days of corporate fashion, posed the exact same problem. I briefly considered e-mailing photos of my outfits for their consideration, but doubted my ability to do so without seeing myself. Thinking of all my other girlfriends, I realized that I’d rarely asked for help choosing clothes, and never without having first formed an opinion on my own. A stereotypical Virgo, I liked being in control. I was fiercely independent, and had been since childhood. It’s not that I didn’t like having friends or wasn’t a good friend in my relationships. But I liked relying on myself. It felt safest that way.

  I’d even developed a habit of shopping for clothes alone. I enjoyed the private project of quietly sifting through rows of hanging clothes and shoe shelves, of feeling the texture of different fabrics between my fingers, of finding fun and funky bargains, of trying on my finds and imagining myself wearing them at various social functions. Something about this solitary process was calming to me, almost meditative as it took my thoughts away from my other stresses and instead toward the visual and tactile experience of rooting through racks of clothes or stacks of shoes. Doing this with companions was disruptive to my meditative state, perhaps due to all of the expected catching up and inevitable back-and-forth asking of “What do you think of this?” types of questions. Of course, I enjoyed showing off my selections once I brought them home, but the act of shopping itself had slowly become a mostly solitary sport.

  This surprised me. I had many fond memories of bargain shopping with Hanna, my mom, and my mom’s sister, Sarah (the Aunt Sarah from South Dakota who’d approved of my first wedding dress via text). But the four of us hadn’t been together in the same city for months, and my memories of these shopping trips conjured images of humorous chatter, flurried chaos, and frequent overspending. Inevitably, the visiting party would have to buy a new suitcase with which to bring everything home! I loved those times, but it was clear that shopping with my female relatives was a completely different sort of project from what I enjoyed when by myself.