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I check my reflection in the mirror frequently. So frequently, I remember several instances when someone has accused me of being obsessed with myself.
To be entirely honest, those people are right. I have been obsessed with myself. Just not for the reasons they may think.
It’s almost an inside joke with myself to watch people believe I incessantly check my reflection because I am so enthralled by the woman glaring back at me.
I chuckle at their accusations, effortlessly embracing the role I’ve grown accustomed to playing — masterfully masking any trace of insecurity. “Hey, guilty as charged,” I quip, a hint of mischief dancing in my eyes as I nonchalantly shrug my shoulders. “Can you blame me? My makeup game is on fire today. So, go ahead and sue me!” My words always carried a carefree confidence, disguising the inner turmoil beneath my playful facade.
You see, I haven’t become obsessed with my appearance because I love it. I’m obsessed because I hate it. I’ve hated every imperfection and flaw I’ve ever perceived myself to have and in the process I’ve deemed my very being unacceptable.
Now, as I stare at my body in the mirror today, something new happens.
I smile.
