There are two mirrors in my house.
One tells the truth.
The other tells me I’m doing alright.
I visit the second one more often.
It’s strategically placed; good lighting, forgiving angle, a slight upward tilt that edits reality just enough to keep the peace. In that mirror, I am still… more or less… the man I remember. Not peak form, perhaps, but comfortably within the jurisdiction of “fit enough.” A citizen in good standing.
The first mirror is less diplomatic.
It waits in corners I accidentally walk into; after a shower, under harsh white light, when posture is un-curated and the day has worn me down into honesty. That mirror doesn’t show a disaster. It shows something worse.
A transition.
Not quite gone. Not quite intact. A version of me mid-edit, and I wasn’t invited to the revision.
I didn’t notice when it began.
That’s the quiet violence of it. Not a dramatic fall, not a sudden betrayal; just a series of harmless adjustments. A shirt tugged down a little more often. A pause before stepping in front of reflective glass. A longer inhale held during casual conversations. Somewhere between “I’m still fit” and “this angle works better,” my body and I entered into an unspoken agreement: I will not question, and it will not escalate too quickly.
We both kept our ends. For a while.
And this is where it gets dangerous; not the belly, not the softness; but the adaptation.
How elegantly we learn to live with small betrayals.
We don’t deny them. That would require confrontation. We reinterpret them.
“It’s just a phase.”
“Work has been hectic.”
“I still look fine in most clothes.”
We don’t lie. We curate.
Because the truth isn’t severe enough to force change… but not harmless enough to ignore. So we build a middle ground; a carefully furnished illusion where everything is explainable and nothing is urgent.
That’s the real skill.
Not discipline. Not fitness.
Self-deception; with just enough honesty to pass as self-awareness.
I’ve become remarkably good at it.
I know which angles make me look like memory. I know how to pose; lightly turned; core casually engaged, laughter doing most of the distraction work. I know how to avoid reflections unless I’m prepared for them. I even know how to think about myself in edited frames; versions of me preserved in older lighting, better days.
I carry that version like valid identification.
Expired; but rarely checked.
I remember the days I laughed.
Not cruelly, not loudly; but with that quiet ease of someone untouched. I’d look at friends with unmistakable bellies and wonder, almost academically, how do you even let it get to that? As if it were a decision. As if life didn’t quietly negotiate on your behalf while you were busy being certain.
I didn’t mean harm.
No one ever does; until the mirror changes sides.
And then came the comment.
Harmless. That’s what I called it. That’s what it was supposed to be. A casual suggestion; lightly delivered. A polite smile followed it, a rehearsed agreement; yeah, I should hit the gym.
But it didn’t pass through me.
It stayed.
Because it wasn’t mockery. Mockery is easy to reject. It gives you something to push against.
This was observation.
And observation doesn’t attack; it aligns.
Suddenly, both mirrors; the kind one and the honest one; said the same thing. And I was left without a preferred version to retreat into.
That’s when it became uncomfortable.
Not because of how I looked.
But because of how I had been seeing.
How long I had chosen the easier mirror. How often I had adjusted not my habits, but my standards. How I had mistaken familiarity for truth.
And just when the mirrors began to agree…
came salvation.
Cotton. Generous. Unstructured. Forgiving.
The oversized top.
Not clothing; more like a peace treaty.
It doesn’t demand posture. It doesn’t ask for effort. It drapes… diplomatically. Where the body negotiates poorly, fabric intervenes with quiet authority. Lines blur. Edges soften. The silhouette becomes interpretive.
In an oversized t-shirt, I am once again a man of ambiguity.
Is there a belly?
Is there not?
Who’s to say?
It creates distance; just enough space between me and the truth to make both of us comfortable. The mirror softens, not because anything has changed, but because everything has been rephrased.
And I accept this kindness.
Too easily.
Because the oversized top doesn’t deny reality; it delays it. It gives me relief without resolution. It turns something physical into something stylistic. A choice. A preference. A phase.
Relief is persuasive.
It whispers, you’re fine… look at you.
It softens urgency. It postpones discipline. It replaces correction with comfort.
And I agree.
Of course I do.
Because the alternative is effort. Discomfort. A return to a version of discipline I keep rescheduling like a meeting I fully intend to attend… someday.
So I rotate my wardrobe like a strategist.
Fitted shirts for optimism.
Oversized ones for honesty management.
And on most days, honesty loses.
But here’s the part that stays with me; the part that doesn’t soften, doesn’t drape, doesn’t adjust.
No one wants a belly.
Not really.
We might normalize it. Joke about it. Even accept it outwardly. But somewhere, quietly, there’s resistance. Not vanity; something closer to memory. A recollection of ease. Of lightness. Of not having to negotiate with your own reflection.
Because a belly isn’t just physical.
It’s cumulative.
A timestamp of late nights, skipped routines, small indulgences, justified exceptions. Not a single decision; but a series of gentle permissions. Each one insignificant on its own. Together, undeniable.
No one wakes up and chooses it.
They wake up and realize they’ve been choosing everything around it.
And the mirror; whichever one you’ve been avoiding; just confirms the math.
So here I am.
Not shocked. Not devastated.
Just… aware.
Standing between two mirrors that have stopped contradicting each other, wearing a shirt that insists everything is still negotiable.
And for the first time, I don’t quite know which one I prefer.
Because the comforting one feels dishonest.
The honest one feels earned.
And the oversized top
the oversized top feels like a very well-written excuse.
One I almost believe.
Until the day the fabric fails…
and the mirror doesn’t.
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