Our family moved frequently when I was growing up, simply because of my father's job. Michigan for two years, Pennsylvania for six, California for four, Connecticut another six before I was old enough to chart my own address. 

 

The California dining room had one feature that I cannot forget. There was a long mirror along the wall, and if you sat on one side of the table for supper you were forced to look at yourself between bites. 

 

I sat on the other.

 

Cameras were another reminder of my appearance that I shied away from, which is perhaps why the box of photographs I am currently sorting has so few of me. 

 

There is a broadcast called Spirit and Life that explored the laver described in the Bible. It turns out that the enormous washing bowl was made of mirrors. The speaker articulates the human experience of glancing in the mirror for a quick overview, then stepping away from both the mirror and any cognizance of how you appear. One of the side effects of spending time on zoom for meetings is the inevitable image of ourselves. It makes it harder to ignore our flaws. 

 

My logic, if you can call it that, is that if I resist seeing myself, then the wrinkles, and flab, and gray hair are not there. But except for my blind friends, which I guess I don't have any of, those attributes are always evident.

 

Until someone markets a mirror like the one the evil witch had, which almost always gives a good report, reflection is more pragmatic than comfortable. Ignorance about the spinach between your teeth does not make it go away.