Over the weekend my husband and I drove (well, he drove, I chose our podcasts) to Omaha to continue my admittedly nutty dream of running a half-marathon in every state. Chester signed up for the 5K, excited to have a goal of his own and a medal at the finish. We left on Saturday, ran Sunday morning, and made it home in time for a lazy frozen pizza dinner that evening. It was all perfect.
I remember road trips with my family. When I was growing up we didn't fly often but piled instead into the van and trekked to whatever vacation destination or family was on the agenda. We'd rotate the seating arrangements and at some point my teenage self would begrudgingly sit up front with a parent, usually my dad, even though I'd much rather be my moody, teenagery self in the back seat with my discman. We'd talk about school, grades, college plans, softball, but eventually we'd run out of topics and I'd be left to lean my head against the seat and stare out the window. I could spend hours staring out windows, happily. But passenger seat windows have that pesky mirror.
I'm not sure when it started but at some point I became annoyed by, almost afraid of, my own reflection. Catching my reflection by surprise made me feel angry, vulnerable, so I made a habit, unbeknownst to anyone around me, of casing every single environment for mirrors and reflective surfaces. My face, my body, my very self, they were all disappointments and it was only with advance preparation that I could manage a mirror without entering into a spiral of self-loathing. Elevators were always a curse, one could never tell from the outside how many mirrors there might be. Hotels especially are notorious for mirrored elevators, all those ladies riding up and down who need to check their lipstick like normal ladies do. I still hate a hotel elevator.
All that is to say, passenger seats have historically been a joy (window! no driving responsibility!) and an anxiety (ugh, that damn mirror). It's an emotional fight I hide well. I can accept a glance in a mirror. I can cushion the blow of disliking what I see with the 37 year old knowledge that it doesn't really matter, not the way it used to. But that ancient bother is still there and I frequently find myself tilting my head at uncomfortable, but flattering, angles, sucking in my cheeks just enough to mimic an instantaneous weight loss.
Our races Sunday morning were hot. I slathered sunscreen on my freckled skin and lubed every seam of my pants and sports bra and still felt the wounds forming as sweat made a quick mess of friction between skin and lycra. By mile ten my right IT band, that lovely string of fire connecting hip and knee, was making itself known, not a surprise but also not welcome. At this point I've felt pretty much every ache available to runners and I have a good sense of what is cause for concern and what is just The Way Rachel's Body Aches When She Runs 13 Miles. An IT band ache is nothing special and I trudged along, a slower pace than I'd like but admirable given the heat. By the time I crossed the finish line I was a sticky, sweaty wreck, strands of wet hair escaping from under my baseball cap, lips chapped because I forgot my chapstick, sunscreen streaked across my cheeks in a way I knew would invite a curious amalgamation of freckles.
By the time we walked back to the hotel after Chester's race I was a bit less rosy but no less messy. Throwing my baseball cap on the bed and tossing my wet clothes in a pile in the bathroom, I didn't hesitate to look in the mirror. I checked the seams along my bra line, knowing I'd cut flesh. I untangled the rat's nest wrapped around my ponytail holder and looked myself in the eye. The mirrors never bother me after runs. For that period of time after great effort I am rewarded with complete acceptance of every freckle, flabby arm, lopsided eyelid (I see it, nobody else does), and that acceptance feels very close to pride. Very close to love.
That acceptance has tended to fade quickly. It's a joy in those moments but soon I'm back in the skin I wish I didn't have, in the body I wish I didn't have. But over the last year I've found those moments of acceptance extending for longer periods of time, which I credit to my husband. There's something miraculous in someone loving all of you, finding beauty in all of you. But it isn't just that mirrored beauty he sees, it's some underlying worth, something inherent and unwavering, as if the way he loves me sees the stuff of me, beneath my skin, within my breath, before it registers my red hair, my blue eyes, the curve of my hips. It feels the way beauty is supposed to be, seeing the ache of muscles after effort, the pride of goals accomplished, the sigh of rest, and letting that be all the beauty one needs.
I ride in the passenger seat of Chester's car. And his is the only car in my adult memory in which I do shirk from the reflection of that pesky mirror. His mirror is the only one I've ever stared at myself without preparation. It is a sign of love that I hadn't registered, hadn't realized existed, until I leaned my head against the glass somewhere in Iowa, caught sight of myself and smiled.
