The man in the mirror looks back at me. Sometimes, I get the feeling that I don’t know him at all. Other times, he is my best friend. We do have a strange relationship.
We couldn’t be more different, him and I. I have my dreams, aspirations and convictions. He is a realist, never shifting away from what things really are. Don’t get me wrong, he can be excited, humorous and covered in tears. But he never overdoes it. He is the one that, no matter what, is always calling the shit for what it is – shit.
Every time I see him, the man in the mirror has this understanding, but the critical look on his face. He knows what happened. He might not like it, but he knows. And he has his own opinion, unafraid of sharing it and putting me on my place. When I am down, he picks me up. When I am high, he brings me down. It is almost always that we do not see things on the same level.
The other day, I saw him in the morning when I was about to shave. He told me that I look forty, maybe more. Your hairline, he said, is no longer existing. Great that you shave. That beard of yours, if you continue not visiting the barber, birds will readily nest in it. And what’s up with the hair coming out of your ears? Cut them out! Go and do that laser shit, yo! You look like an old man who just got hit by a bus and ran over by a submarine.
The nerve of that guy…
The man in the mirror is not shy. And the funny thing is that he hears nothing I say. He listens, but he does not hear. Sometimes, I feel like punching him so hard that his socks will fall off. I swear, one time I even tried. He didn’t budge. Not even a little bit, not even at all.
I appreciate him not lying to me and being real. It is something I need to stay on course. Whatever that thing means, of course. For example, when I think I am getting closer to Ryan Reynolds’ body shape, he takes a serious stance, checks me out and bursts into a laugh.
The man in the mirror is no picnic. But he is always there. And I appreciate that.
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