The Troglodyte?
As I was sitting in the doctor's office, perched on that paper-clad table all doctors have, I glanced sideways at the mirror on the wall. I gazed at the image of myself in reflection, and I had one, dominant thought in my head: "I am fat and ugly."
This was immediately after the nurse had led me to the scale and taken my weight. I didn't read the measurement myself, and she mumbled the number, but it was not what I expected. I had hoped all the work I'd been putting into trying to slowly and permanently lose weight actually paid off; I thought, for sure, I had lost something more than ten pounds or so.
Engulfed within the white, sterile world of a clinic, I could not help but think of myself as a stain to be cleaned up, some disgusting blemish on the surface of perfection that is otherwise maintained in this private, pristine world.
Perhaps it was the angle of the mirror, the way it captured the bulk of my body in full. Perhaps it was the fact that I had been putting off shaving for so long that my face was a scraggly, unkempt mess of brown hair. Perhaps it's just that I haven't had a haircut in three years, and my hair is reaching down my back, now, like a homeless tramp's would. Or that my eyelids droop half-open, all the time, even when my eyes are, for all intents and purposes, wide-open; it gives me the appearance of someone extremely tired, or very apathetic. I have this mark above my left eyebrow, from getting stabbed there with a dart, but that's not visible except up-close -- still, it bothers me.
As I lingered on my mirror image, I thought back on all the women I had ever thought were exceptionally beautiful; moreover, I reminisced on the ones I had found so attractive that I persued. Without exception, it never failed that I would . . . Well, fail. Sometimes I wonder if I have a knack for going after women that think more highly of themselves than they honestly should. Of course, that just sounds like embitterment, but I think there's something to be said for the theory that every single woman I've ever asked out has been, to one degree or another, conceited.
It's the extreme, spectrum opposite of my low self-esteem, so it probably poses a quality of uniqueness and contrast in women to be full of themselves: that wonder and awe at the idea that someone can not only be content with how they look, but believe it to be that damn good. To be able to put one's self, or to be put there by the rest of society, up on a pedestal where nobody can touch, but everybody can admire, it's a novelty to me. Also, kind of stupid, I think.
I only let myself dwell on these trains of thought for a short time, but it imposes a cold grasp on my heart when I do. It's interesting that such emotion has a physical effect, but not uncommon. Sure, I am rather overweight, but I've seen worse -- I finally shaved, today, as well -- and it's absurd to think oneself to be the most atrocious being alive.
Sigh. Still, I sure would like to be able to say I've had one date in my life. Eh . . .
Adios.
This was immediately after the nurse had led me to the scale and taken my weight. I didn't read the measurement myself, and she mumbled the number, but it was not what I expected. I had hoped all the work I'd been putting into trying to slowly and permanently lose weight actually paid off; I thought, for sure, I had lost something more than ten pounds or so.
Engulfed within the white, sterile world of a clinic, I could not help but think of myself as a stain to be cleaned up, some disgusting blemish on the surface of perfection that is otherwise maintained in this private, pristine world.
Perhaps it was the angle of the mirror, the way it captured the bulk of my body in full. Perhaps it was the fact that I had been putting off shaving for so long that my face was a scraggly, unkempt mess of brown hair. Perhaps it's just that I haven't had a haircut in three years, and my hair is reaching down my back, now, like a homeless tramp's would. Or that my eyelids droop half-open, all the time, even when my eyes are, for all intents and purposes, wide-open; it gives me the appearance of someone extremely tired, or very apathetic. I have this mark above my left eyebrow, from getting stabbed there with a dart, but that's not visible except up-close -- still, it bothers me.
As I lingered on my mirror image, I thought back on all the women I had ever thought were exceptionally beautiful; moreover, I reminisced on the ones I had found so attractive that I persued. Without exception, it never failed that I would . . . Well, fail. Sometimes I wonder if I have a knack for going after women that think more highly of themselves than they honestly should. Of course, that just sounds like embitterment, but I think there's something to be said for the theory that every single woman I've ever asked out has been, to one degree or another, conceited.
It's the extreme, spectrum opposite of my low self-esteem, so it probably poses a quality of uniqueness and contrast in women to be full of themselves: that wonder and awe at the idea that someone can not only be content with how they look, but believe it to be that damn good. To be able to put one's self, or to be put there by the rest of society, up on a pedestal where nobody can touch, but everybody can admire, it's a novelty to me. Also, kind of stupid, I think.
I only let myself dwell on these trains of thought for a short time, but it imposes a cold grasp on my heart when I do. It's interesting that such emotion has a physical effect, but not uncommon. Sure, I am rather overweight, but I've seen worse -- I finally shaved, today, as well -- and it's absurd to think oneself to be the most atrocious being alive.
Sigh. Still, I sure would like to be able to say I've had one date in my life. Eh . . .
Adios.
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
5:05 AM
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