During fashion week, each morning during my visit to Milan, I woke up, took a quick glance out the window to see what the weather was, a quick glance in my suitcase to find an outfit, and a quick glance in the mirror…
A quick glance… or maybe two. Hmmmmm (the same hmmmmm of Homer Simpson in front of a donut.)
Oh but look at this. So stylish! This jacket is just TOO beautiful. I never realized just how well it fit. And these jeans, wow, buttocks of a goddess, look at that, Scott! It even rhymes! Well… almost. Did I lose some weight or something? Bah. I dunno. Anyway, with how great I look, it’s bound to be an amazing day. Wait wait, I’ll toss on this hat and off I go. Look out, fashion icon passing, oooooo, it’s suuuuuuch a perfect day, I’m glaaaaad I spent it wiiiiiiith you Garance, ta ta ta ta…
And then, with my room on the 5th floor, I hop in the elevator. And right then, I take a look in the mirror.
Hmmm. (The hmmm of Marge Simpson in the mirror after her Japanese hair straightening.)
Wait a minute… What happened to me between my bedroom and the elevator? Did I change something or what? What’s with this jacket? It’s too tight. And that’s just a little off. Grrrr. And that doesn’t go at all with these pants. All you can see is my ass!!! And my skin. What are those bags under my eyes? Maybe it’s time to go right back to sleep for me. Oh my god. I look terrible, and no time to go change… Disgusting. I’m going to have an ugly day with my ugly outfit and my ugly me. Pfff. Ugly!
After three days of schizophrenia (Hmmm! Hmmm?) aggravated by ugly days spent lamenting my wardrobe, my figure, and of course then, my life, I finally figured out what the problem was.
My problem was that the mirror in my room was being a touch too friendly and making me sublime, making me a few inches taller, a few pounds less, and was in the perfect place in the room to catch all the perfect morning like so I looked like a Lancôme ad, you know the ones, the ads that take place in the marvelous world where pores don’t exist.
And then the mirror in the elevator, yep, that one there was doing exactly the opposite. It was lit with fluorescent lights known for making bags under the eyes, and made in the same fabric as the wide screen TVs. And maybe, I started to think, this one was showing the reality. I dunno, and I didn’t dare ask Scott.
What I know is that the following morning, after three days of style depression and the desire to sign up for the Biggest Loser, I decided to keep my good mood and take the stairs.
I had the most amazing day.
No but really, which would you chose? Illusion or reality?
Translation : Tim Sullivan