Eve Marx

Word count: 1196

Three years old; Raleigh Avenue, Atlantic City 

I lived with my parents in a sprawling, floor-through apartment steps from the boardwalk and beach. Glorious sunlight streamed in the south-facing bedroom windows, but the front rooms faced north and were frequently dark and cave-like. My mother, ever the clever decorator, hung as many mirrors as she could to lighten up those rooms. My parents were somewhat indifferent to me. My mother was a career woman and my father was already in his fifties. I was an only child, and since it never occurred to my parents to enroll me in pre-school or arrange playdates, I was left to my own devices for hours at a time. I had a playroom filled with toys, but I preferred slipping into the living room to stare into an enormous gilt-framed mirror propped against a wall. I didn’t accept or understand that the girl staring back was me; I thought she was another girl who just happened to be my twin. I shared this thought with my father whose response was to purchase the hot doll at the time, Patty PlayPal, who was my height and had my same light brown hair and blue eyes. At three feet tall, she was too cumbersome to play with or carry around. I took an instant dislike to her, but at night my father tucked her in bed beside me. Her rigid plastic body was always cold as ice. Side by side, under the covers, we looked very much alike. One night I played a trick on my mother who entered my room and touched the doll’s cold body. She screamed, thinking I had died. The doll mysteriously disappeared after that, but I continued spending as much time as I could with my twin in the mirror. 

*

Twenty-three years old; New York City

Straight out of graduate school, I got an entry-level job at a publishing house. Monday through Friday, I took the subway to the office. At day’s end, I walked home to my tiny Greenwich Village apartment. Striding along the city streets, I maintained a steady connection to myself reflected in plate-glass store windows. I loved observing myself in motion. I was a fast walker, and to keep things interesting, I varied my route–Third Avenue before cutting over to Madison or Fifth. I continued moving westward, heading over to Sixth and finally settling down on lower Seventh until I hit Barneys, where I finally stopped and stared directly into their windows. Barneys was my favorite store, and they had the best window dresser. I was in love with my own reflection. For the first time in my life, I felt invincible and perfect. 

*

Thirty-four years old; Gold’s Gym, Venice Beach, CA 

I had a Mommy body and a two-and-a-half-year-old. My breasts, always too big, now drooped, and my thighs and midsection were doughy. I made a friend at our son’s Montessori school (her husband worked on the Ninja Turtles TV show, and they were building a new house); she was splendidly bony with outstanding collar bones. She and the other pre-school mommies wore spandex at morning drop-off, displaying their rock-hard torsos while I shielded my soft, squishy ball of mozzarella cheese body in pilled leggings and baggy tee shirts. I took it into my head that although I wouldn’t have lipo or even diet, I would join a gym to get in shape. I joined Gold’s in Venice Beach, and it was a heady rush just entering this iconic temple of hard-rock music and bodies forged of iron. The morning regulars included Jeff Goldblum and Dennis Hopper and world-famous bodybuilders Mike Christian and Tony Pearson. Even Arnold Schwarzenegger, whose name was more associated with World than Gold’s, sometimes made the scene. I figured the best way to plunge past my intimidation was to begin working with a young trainer from Georgia four mornings a week. He introduced me to new equipment like the Smith Machine where he built up my glutes and quads. “You gotta look in the mirror,” he instructed as I grunted through my sets. I enjoyed the workout but not the mirror — and every wall was mirrored. Instead of studying the mirror to self-correct my form, I obsessed about my hair and the dark rings under my eyes, and I wondered if I shouldn’t look into a boob lift. 

“C’mon,” my trainer said in exasperation. “Lookin’ in the mirror don’t make you no mirror queer.” 

*

Forty-two years old; Katonah, NY

One day, my husband announced that mirrors would be banished from our home. He said he didn’t care to be constantly reminded of the loss of his boyish looks. Before he carted off all our mirrors to the town dump, I embarked on a furious closet cleaning, trying on all the fabulous clothes I’d held onto forever. There was a sexy, one-shoulder Betsey Johnson number, a clingy Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress, and a “waist trainer” bondage-style, leather corset that once upon a time I wore over my clothes like a belt (back when I had a waist). I stood in front of a mirror and glumly announced I felt like a mutton dressed as lamb. My once-cherished and hard-won garments were thrown into a black plastic garbage bag, never to be seen again. 

*

Sixty-seven years old; Seaside, Oregon

The only mirrors in our empty nester home are positioned above double sinks in the bathroom of the modest bungalow we purchased when we moved to the Left Edge. I strenuously avoid looking at my entire naked self when stepping from the shower. What I see causes me despair. My son asks how we get dressed without a mirror, and I say I know what I look like in my clothes. I prefer applying what little makeup I wear while sitting in an old teak Adirondack chair by a window in the kitchen because the natural light is very good and I can see and pluck tiny hairs sprouting from my chin. I prefer using an old-fashioned compact mirror, the kind that fits in your hand. I love how I don’t have to look at all of my old, ruined face at once. I can just look at my lips or my cheeks or my eyes and nothing further. 

We eat all our meals at the bar now, and by that, I mean the kitchen bar. There is a four-foot-long marble table attached to the marble-topped island, and it is exactly bar stool height. There are only two of us now at the table, but our positions are fixed. He always faces the window looking out onto the street while I face inward. My eyes, when not focused on his face, are trained on my reflection in a glazed-glass framed map of the Bedford Riding Lanes hung above an old oak three-drawer chest. Layered over the top right portion of the map is a small photograph of clouds over New Mexico by the artist David Michael Kennedy. We drink a little wine and eat the meal I’ve prepared and unpack our day. I keep one eye on the glass. I guess after all this time, I am mirror queer. 

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Eve is a journalist and author currently scraping out a tiny living crafting police reports for newspapers in New York and Oregon. She is the author of What’s Your Sexual IQ?, The Goddess Orgasm, 101 Things You Didn’t Know About Sex.