self-REFLECTION

A shiny surface attracts my attention. Now that I am  face-to-face, eyeball-to-eyeball, mano a mano … do I like what I see?

Is it a convincing look-alike reflected back?

Does it bear a resemblance?

Are we two peas in a pod?

Or am I being duped?

Stop mocking me. I have issues.

I have meditated, contemplated, pondered, stewed over, mulled over and OVERdone a generous amount of self-REFLECTION.

And in spite of all that mental exploration what it really comes down to is that unnerving, evil, pesky MIRROR. That damn looking-glass. THAT REFLECTION forcing incongruous images back at me.

While being quite accustomed to my mirrors’ image at home, my bewilderment often crystallizes when I catch a glimpse while out and about. It can be surprising and damn unsettling.

In my mind’s eye I am more of this or less of that.

It is so silly.

To give you an idea of how foolishly engaged I am with that reflector – take a gander at my morning routine:

The first thing I do upon entering my bathroom each morning is sizing up how flat my stomach is. Like it has magically developed a six-pack overnight.

Then I systematically scope out if it looks any flatter … after I’ve taken a shower … after I’ve fixed my hair … after I’ve brushed my teeth … and so forth – it’s irrational and absurd. Right?

My love/hate relationship with mirrors can be traced through the years.

My daughters, when tiny humans, relished the mirrors’ reflection. They preened, twirled, danced and celebrated every twist, turn and silly face. The relationship with their reflections was based on delight and approval. How lovely is that?

I imagine I was doing the same at that age; without judgment and minus pulling or tugging of skin.

When teenage years arrived my preoccupation with the mirror was all about my face . An inordinate amount of time was spent scanning my skin for pimples and applying those ‘anti’ and ‘clearing up’ concoctions and cover-ups.

Although no longer ‘in love’ with the mirror, I was still frequently ‘in like’. The obsession over body type hadn’t occurred. Yet. That would come later.

And here we go…

It was just before Thanksgiving, my first semester of college, when I tried on a pair of wide whale brown corduroy pants.

I hoisted and heaved, but before you could say, “two demi plies one grand plie releve and balance”, I had succumbed to the ‘freshman fifteen’.

Yep, I was a dance major and an eagle-eyed teacher harshly felt the need to comment on my uptick.

THE END to my affectionate rapport with the mirror.

As professional dancers, scrutinizing ourselves in front of a mirror is a daily occurance. Entering the studio and facing those reflectors, it’s our collective appraisal launching each class or rehearsal.

By virtue of our perceived body distortions, we do our damnedest to get in front of the ‘skinny’ mirror.

There is always a skinny mirror and dancers are drawn to it ... transfixed, besotted, smitten.

Lest you think it is always a bummer,  the mirror is once again complimentary when one is truly engaged in the movement.

It’s a flirtatious collaboration with one’s image; fully alive with contagious energy, a sense of freedom, sweeping gestures and power. Nothing compares.

Yet (here we go again) it often becomes a crutch, and awkward, when told to “do it away from the mirror”.

In spite of this complicated interplay I still take class; mirror and all. It’s my most magical, most glorious, most extraordinary therapy.

For that hour and a half, I am engaged in the dance, in joyful escape, relishing every moment. 

AND mostly inspired by my reflection.

Pouring over old photos with my dance buddies –  when we thought we were fat  – we now recognize how truly fabulous we were!

Why all that illogical scrutiny of our physical dimensions? What a waste of energy that was.

As a “mature” dancer, no longer in the performing realm, my rapport with mirrors is ever-changing. I’ve (maturely?) come to accept the fact that some of my technical expertise needs to be readjusted.

A bit of a letdown when my mind’s eye thinks my grand jeté is going to be suspended waaay up in the air!

(to self: be grateful you can still move those joints and engage those muscles. Never ever forget how powerful that is.)

Am I still affected by my so-called yin/yang relationship with the mirror?

Still complicated.

On the one hand, when standing motionless, contemplating my reflection, judging, dissecting, evaluating, it’s YlN all the way.

On the other hand, the act of moving fills me up with little kid joy. Gleeful, grateful, approving. And that is what I am determined to focus my eyeballs on.

My oh so sweet YANG.

~ outside the Mary Vandas School of Dance

~ Lou Conte Dance Studio on Hubbard Street

~ Mature Dance Project (much gratitude to Sherry Zunker)

Care to join me?