Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

This picture says it all.

For the first time in 14 years, I have a full-length mirror again. Actually, a whole wall of them, since my Master closet has those  things of high-styling 80s innovation - mirrored doors. Still, gaudy polished brass and wall-sized mirrors aside, I'm grateful for them. Even if they are positioned so that it's the first thing I see when I step out of the shower.

Last week, I had an epiphany as a result of those life-sized pieces of reflective glass: I saw myself in the mirror.

Myself. My body. The body that has failed me on more than one occasion.  The body covered in skin that still looks like it did 20 years ago when my mother told me, "It won't always look this way." (She was partially right - it didn't - now it looks the way it did 20 years ago PLUS it has the fine-line wrinkles I'm supposed to spend my life's savings chasing away). The body that would never land me on the cover of a single magazine. The body that rejected 35 bathing suits this spring because it is (like everyone else's body) disproportionate. The body that is intent on rejecting one food after another - on the speedy path to a life at 80 on a plain oatmeal only diet. The body that inherited my mother's translucent skin, my father's fur coat and an unknown genetic ancestor's penchant for scarring. The body that has lumps and bumps and sags and cracks and follicles and wrinkles and oddities in places where none should exist, if I were to subscribe to the popular notion that my body isn't good enough unless it has been altered (either virtually or literally) beyond any natural predisposition.

But, I also saw something else: Myself. Not someone else. I saw my body - the one that has born two children, the one who has survived two near death experiences and has come close to several others, the body that has health and strength and vitality, the body that has four fully functioning limbs and sight and hearing, the body that is mine - a gift bequeathed from a loving Father in Heaven who knew it was a prerequisite for exaltation. I saw my body - the one I have, not the one that is a fairy tale plaguing us all at one point and time. And I thought, "for a thirtysomething mother of two with all the above bodily issues, I am really okay with how I look in a bathing suit."

I almost didn't admit this out loud - because I can hear it now, the chorus of, "I hate yous." For some reason, as women, we get insanely uncomfortable when one among us proclaims that she isn't trying to lose weight, isn't on a diet, and can fathom herself wearing a bathing suit somewhere beside the kiddie pool sans a full-body cover-up.

But the truth is, I was blessed with decent genes, and I work really hard at being healthy - so why shouldn't I be okay with how I look in a bathing suit, even if I'm in no danger of having to fend of modeling scouts? Why shouldn't I see the muscle definition that is illustrative of stronger muscles resulting from pursuit of cardio and resistance activity? Why shouldn't I see the unhealthy pounds I've managed to keep off for almost six years as a result of eliminating calories that aren't worth it and swapping them with calories that are? Or the unhealthy things that never were because I set a goal at 12 to treat a chronic condition with healthy lifestyle choices rather than medication? Why shouldn't I celebrate the fact that I'm in a place in which I see very few of my female friends and colleagues (regardless of size or health) - not a place of supermodel glitz and glamour, but a place of, "I'm okay. I'm healthy. I feel good, and I'm happy to be me,"? Why shouldn't I be glad that I have been blessed (genetically) and worked for (lifestyle) the health to spend a weekend afternoon running foot races with my 4-year-old? Or the health to anticipate a glorious outdoors trek with my father this summer? Or a body that has grown and sustained two little girls? (Even if I was certain it would, at some point, probably kill me).

It was a liberating split-second moment - to see myself as who I am and to rejoice. If I could give anything to my girls, that split-second revelation would be near the top of my list.