Mirror Mirror

Yesterday was a pretty average Sunday. I drank my first coffee with almond milk. My second coffee with almond milk. I slipped into an overpriced athleticwear set, headed to barre class, and solved the daily Wordle. I showered, performed my elaborate skincare ritual, and curled up on the couch with a book. It was only when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, underneath meticulously applied purple eyeshadow and a pair of reading glasses, that I saw my mother staring back at me. Shuddering, I chugged the glass of white wine in my hand, leaving a lip gloss stain on the rim.

For context: Mom is a stay-at-home parent with a knack for healthful cooking and an eye for fashion and interior design. She refuses to step out of the house in sweatpants or with wet hair and has a low tolerance for people who do. She gets hives at the sight of stray socks on the floor or an unmade bed. She’s terrified of airplanes, sunburns, and simple carbohydrates; loves British history and classic movies; and always smells good. She swears up and down that she’s never smoked or ingested marijuana. She hates tattoos, the children’s book “Rainbow Fish” (apparently it’s a metaphor for communism), bumper stickers (they’re basically tattoos for cars!), and dog people. I’ve only seen her cry a few times in my 21 years, and I’ve never seen her sweat. She’s only ever seriously dated my dad, and they have the most stable and loving relationship I’ve ever seen. If I were to describe her in a word, it would be “composed”.

I, however, am a biology student who spends Thursday mornings dissecting a myriad of disgusting creatures. I’ve been known to eat tortilla chips off the floor and Nutella by the spoonful. I patented the “bucket” room organization method: one bucket for clean laundry that I haven’t folded for days, one bucket for dirty laundry that I let accumulate for too long before I wash it. I go to class with sweaty, frizzy workout hair. I often smell like garlic (and, on Thursdays, formaldehyde). I burn everything I cook. My favorite conversation topics are reality television and sex, and I spearheaded a strip-club-themed party for a friend’s birthday. I cry every single day, whether I have a reason to or not. As a kid, I kicked an older relative square in the balls because he mildly upset me. My dating life is currently a never-ending series of disappointments with various women that my mother disapproves of, not because they’re women, but because they’re “trashy” and often not Jewish. My family refers to me as “hurricane Rachel” because of my big personality and even bigger emotions. In my mind’s eye, I look and sound like Adam Sandler— sloppy,

Mirror

MirrorBy Rachel Troy

loud, a bit chubby, spewing potty humor—when compared to my chic and pulled-together mother.

What I remember the most about my teenage years with my mother is the amount of scrutiny my appearance was subject to. Mom signed me up for pilates classes at the ripe age of 10, presumably for my posture. I was only allowed to watch television on a school night if I was walking on the treadmill in our basement. (My mother values education as much as she does looking one’s best.) When I got my ears pierced in third grade, Mom drew dots on my lobes in purple Sharpie, ensuring they were perfectly even—she didn’t trust the piercer to do a good enough job. When I was recovering from my cosmetic rhinoplasty, Mom switched out my bandages and tenderly wiped the dripping blood from my bruised and puffy face. My developing body, a cash cow for Weight Watchers from the moment I started puberty despite being in perfectly good health, was shrouded in beautiful-but-matronly outfits that covered every lump, edge, and curve. Name a dressing room in Westchester County or on the Upper East Side—I’ve probably cried in it. The bulk of my weekends, from ages 11 to 18, were dedicated to ripping or singeing every follicle of thick, dark hair from my skin. As my various nooks and crannies were getting waxed or plucked or lasered within an inch of their life, Mom sat in the room with me, telling the aesthetician exactly what to do. I dug my nails into the palm of her hand and winced, only for her to respond, “Gimme a break!” and pull her hand away.

Every time I come home from college, I pinch and prod the ten extra pounds I’ve gained over the pandemic in a futile attempt to get rid of them, and I ultimately resort to swaddling myself in old sweat suits three sizes too big to hide the softness of my body. I scrutinize myself in the mirror and pick at my normally blemishless face in an attempt to smoothe over microscopic bumps, leaving red, oozing craters in their wake. I let my hair become greasy and limp. I wrap myself in a fleece blanket and dissociate to the sounds of some sitcom playing from my laptop for hours on end. I binge-eat gummy vitamins, the only thing that can satisfy my sugar withdrawal in a kitchen completely devoid of sweets or snacks. I refuse to clean my room and slowly fester in it, surrounded by mess and burrowed under the covers of my twin bed.

Mom and I fight incessantly over the griminess of my room, my freshly pockmarked skin, my refusal to wear an underwire bra, the knotty bun in my hair. She voices her disapproval of the situation, I blow up at her, and, defeated, she retreats to the kitchen or the green chair in

the living room where she likes to read. After wallowing for a bit, I apologize sincerely only to be met with the silent treatment, and then I become exponentially louder and ruder. Once I lose my voice begging to be heard, I sulk back to my room with the gray blanket, reeking of body odor by this point, trailing behind me like a fuzzy bridal veil.

Sometimes I wonder why I let myself go when I come home. Is it a rebellion against the primping and plucking and pinching I was subjected to as a kid? Depression? A rejection of heteronormative beauty standards? Regression to my closeted high-school self? Pure exhaustion from the immense pain and time and effort that is needed to maintain acceptable femininity and beauty? Jealousy that womanhood seems to come more easily to my mother? Perhaps (honestly, probably) all of the above. But I took all these negative feelings, which should’ve been directed at society or the difficult process of coming of age or the fashion industry or men, and placed the burden on Mom’s narrow (but freakishly strong) shoulders. Mom, despite being a mother, is still a woman, and even more shockingly, a PERSON, who received the same messages about beauty and femininity and thinness that I did. A person who I ironically resemble a lot and whose bodily insecurities most likely mirror mine. I think it’s time for me to forgive my mother for wanting me to look my best in a society that values women primarily for our looks as defined by men, especially since that’s all she was taught.

Once, when I was particularly frustrated with a comment my mother made regarding my weight, I called my dad in hopes of finding someone to commiserate with, since he’s often the subject of her comments, as well. Instead, he told me an anecdote. When my parents had just gotten engaged, they attended a family event together, and Mom was excited to wear a new dress she bought. She felt especially beautiful that day, until her grandparents pulled her aside and gave her some unsolicited advice: “You could be really pretty…if you lost 15 pounds.” Dad also recalled a time when my mother’s greatgrandmother was severely ill and refused to go to the hospital without putting on her girdle first. Even in the face of a dire medical emergency, looking thin was the first thing on her mind! Considering the people who raised her, my mother’s vanity is a result of several generations worth of baggage rather than an inherent character flaw. I haven’t even touched on the effect my mom’s parents had on her self esteem, but I’ll spare them in this essay because I would like to continue using their indoor pool.

In the process of trying to become a wellrounded and independent adult, I wrongly robbed my mother of her humanity and inner life. I overlooked our shared love of books and art and sitcoms (because we’re too anxious to watch anything scary). I completely forgot that Mom has a killer sense of humor until I eavesdropped on her cracking up her college friends on FaceTime. I turned this woman— who used to put on ABBA’s greatest hits and dance with me, who has a competitive streak and jokingly blows raspberries in my face when I lose a game of scrabble, who leaves my favorite celebrity gossip magazines on my bed for me to find when I come home from school, who blow-dried my hair and did my makeup before every bar or bat mitzvah, who only thinks the girls I date are “trashy” because they don’t always treat me well, who sends me a Valentine’s day gift every single year—into a caricature.

I don’t necessarily want to inherit Mom’s views on beauty or femininity, but it’s time for me to retire my fear of turning into her. And sometimes, when she’s in her Michigan sweatshirt with her hair in a ponytail, or loudly and shamelessly giving my sisters and me The Talk in a crowded restaurant, or makeupless and eating a chocolate chip cookie from the hidden stash behind her desktop computer, I even see a little bit of myself in there.