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The Beautiful Woman in The Mirror

The Beautiful Woman in The Mirror.

The Beautiful Woman in the Mirror

Cassandra George Sturges M.A., M.A., Psy.D

She didn’t know I was looking. And I had never seen her before. I was bewildered by the suppleness of her moist skin and the contrast of the darkness of the areola surrounding the nipples of her full breasts in contrast to the rest of her body. Her tummy bulged with sexiness, I had never seen on any other woman before; and her hips and thighs were round, mature and graceful. I found myself mercifully staring in disbelief. Her eyes were engaging and innocent. And her lips invited me to stay. “Who is she?,” I wondered to myself as I studied her reflection in the mirror.

While on a business trip in another state, my soul reveled in its new surrounding. My hotel chamber was exquisitely decorated, room service was exceptional, and the only thing I had forgotten to bring with me — was my self. The self who instinctively knew where all of my body’s flaws were hidden and each morning she effortlessly reminded me of each one. Even though I was away from home, she was still there making sure that the children were cared for and the bills were paid. This is the self whom I had always depended on and she had never lied to me.

She never meant to hurt me. The purpose of her criticisms was to chisel me into the image of beauty approved of by society. “When you lose weight — you can buy this dress-you can have that man and I’ll even throw in the job you have been dying for,” she would sternly, but gently whisper in my ear. I believed her. She helped me find creative ways to put my dreams on hold and quiet my desires. I missed her voice of reason. I needed her advice, because the presence of the beautiful woman in the mirror looked like me, and she didn’t look like any other woman I have ever known. If indeed this woman in the mirror was me, then I had no idea of who I was.

Contrary to me, the woman in the mirror was sensuous, bold and confident. Unclad, unadorned and undisguised she was certain of her femininity. The mirror reflected but only her body; no make-up, no earrings, no shoes and no clothing; yet nothing was missing. With nothing she appeared complete, and I envied her. Whereas, my beauty was assembled by garments, accessories and perfumes and without these, I felt bare and unattractive. I was daunted, though aroused by her immodesty and the way she freely exposed herself in front of me. I wanted her to be me. I longed to hear the same music that propelled her to passionately sway as if she believed in herself. I desperately needed to feel what she was feeling and see what she was seeing.

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