Girl in the Mirror

I watch her eyes sweep through her 5’2” frame. She takes a quarter turn, looks over her shoulder and scrutinizes her sleeveless arms, butt and legs. She frowns as she steps on the weighing scale for the 3rd time that week: 125 lbs. She looks me in the eye for a moment and then I hear her sing, “Gotta make a change for once in my life. It's gonna feel real good, gonna make a difference, gonna make it right…”

I see her changing into sweat pants, an old shirt and Nike shoes I’ve never seen before. She goes inside the gym. She warms up. She tries to reach for her toes and winces in pain. She steps on the treadmill and walks for 10, pause, 20 minutes. She jogs for another 10.

“You don’t have time for this,” I tell her. “How can you leave your work behind?” She stumbles but catches herself in time. Glaring at me, she proceeds to the stationary bicycle and starts pumping with her feet. She groans. I mock her, “See? Way less painful to tackle those reports than do that.”

Defiantly, she picks a pair of pink-colored weights and flexes her arms. Next her abs. Inhale, exhale… she cries out in pain. “You’re crazy,” I tell her. “Stop torturing yourself.”

After an hour, she stops. She goes to the weighing scale. I laugh at her, “You really think you’re going to lose pounds after one session?”

Nor did she lose pounds after a month. She goes to the gym three times a week and checks her weight as often. I can feel her frustration. “Give it up,” I tell her, “You’re suffering for nothing.”

She ignores me and works out even harder. She ups her cardio time and stretches herself some more. I have to admit her body is starting to look more toned now, but I don’t tell her that. I watch her twist and turn on the floor. I wonder why she would prefer to be stuck in the gym at this hour when she can be out with her friends at the mall, sharing a bucket of GPS and Yellow Cab’s New York’s Finest.

I sneer, “You’re doing this for a man, aren’t you?” She blushes. I knew it. Typical, oh so typical.

Before long, I see the Man in the mirror. I look at his form and decide, not bad. He picks up the girl. They decide to go out for dinner. She checks herself in the mirror. I know what she’s thinking. Is she pretty? Is she thin enough? I never quite understand why girls in this dimension and age always calculate beauty in terms of pounds. As for the girl, she has lost only a measly pound after two months of working out. But I tell her fondly anyway, “You’re beautiful.” She beams.

I see the girl less and less in the gym. Then she is gone for a long time. On a Saturday night, she comes back. I wake up to find her staring at the mirror with swollen eyes and tears streaking her face. Alarmed, I ask her, “What happened girl?” She just cries some more. She bawls, she screams, she sleeps.
I don’t see the Man in the mirror anymore so I take the hint.

After a while, I get bored looking at her getting ugly as days pass. I ask her to change her ways. I tell her, “You’ve got to stand up and lift yourself now. You’ve got to move, girl. Move on.”

Maybe it’s habit. Perhaps, she knows no other way to fill her time. But eventually she changes into her sweat pants and old shirt, climbs on the treadmill and starts running again. The air dries her tears. For days, she runs. As I watch her pick up the bloody weights once more, I wince and tell her straight, “You don’t have to do that now. With you crying a river, moping around and missing meals-- you’ve kissed more than enough pounds goodbye.” She ignores me. She doesn’t go to the weighing scale to confirm.

“Are you doing this to impress someone again?” She does not answer. My cynical self keep waiting for another man to appear in the mirror and whisk the girl away once more. But weeks pass and there was just the girl sweating, stretching, and sometimes, swearing on the floor.

I begin to understand that this time she’s doing this for no one else but herself. She runs to heal. She lifts dumbbells to make herself stronger. She stretches her body to conquer her limits. She works out to make herself better.

Slightly panting, she lifts her body and faces me in the mirror. Her face is flushed, her hair and white shirt are soaking wet. But oh, her eyes are clear and no longer troubled. She smiles triumphantly. In that moment, I tell her honestly, “Girl, I’ve never seen you look more beautiful.”

I follow her to the treadmill. This time, I run with her.


--SunStar Weekend, 24 April 2010