Self-Portrait 2012½ *

In which our Hero decides that one cannot just look in the mirror; sometimes one must *be* the mirror. And then regrets that particular call

I was asked what I look like and my immediate reflex was that I’ve answered that, but it occurs to me that it’s been quite a while since I’ve done so and I’m older and wiser, right? Heh.

Thus:

I look like a middle-aged man.

Man, that was easy.

Actually, it’s not easy at all. I have two constraints to work with, my own self-image (and self-mockery), and the awareness that Nocturne will not be pleased with me if I am unkind with myself.

But I’m feeling the effects of time, and I’ve never thought of myself as good looking. My hairline has been creeping slowly away from my eyebrows, the top of my head thins out to what will eventually be a friar’s tonsure. My sideburns have been frosted for many years, and the silver creeps into my hair and glints here and there on my chest, on my arms. After seeing myself in the mirror unshaven, I don’t think I’m going to let myself get stubbly anymore; instead of salt and pepper, it makes me look old and worn.

(When the cousins were over recently, Moonbeam was behind me, playing with my hair when she suddenly giggled. “You’re going bald, Serinchachen!”. “I know. But it’s generally considered rude to laugh,” I teased her and she was comically apologetic)

Wait, I’m starting wrong.

I’m 5’10” and 185 lbs. That makes me average in height based on everything I can find and… well I don’t know what to say about weight given some of the men I see. I’ve got a little bit of a tummy, enough to be unhappy with it. I’ve had to change my pant size once and I’m really determined not to do that again, which is unfortunate because sweet potato fries are catching on big in these parts.

Really, I’m kind of visually unremarkable. Black hair. Well mostly, see above. Cut shorter but not brush-cut or anything. Brown eyes. A nose that trends a little off the ecliptic. Fuller lips than I think is average, but fairly normal for my demographic group. Ears. (What, you come up with a description when they aren’t pointy and they aren’t big and they aren’t small) I’m told I have long and slender fingers. I don’t see what would make them long, but I’ll agree they’re slender. On the other hand, they’re strong enough and dexterous and shoot pretty good lightning bolts.

I stand fairly straight, and from feedback it makes me look more substantive than I think I am, both in height and in psychological size. For many years I’ve been wearing rimless ovoid glasses with brownish/gunmetal arms and bridge.

I wear fairly unremarkable clothes; tasteful, slightly conservative. I don’t really like bright colours for myself. I work in dress shirts and slacks and currently wear a blazer mostly for the amusement value. I wear a small gold necklace, that my grandfather had made for my birth. I wear a dull grey raw iron ring, that I bear as the symbol my obligation in my profession. I wear an analogue watch which is how I know the time. (And navigate on sunny days)

No piercings. No tattoos. Most of my interesting scars have faded, so that the ice skate wound looks less impressive than the seemingly shallow cat scratch. Some dark scars on my arms where I couldn’t stop picking at scabs.

So. If we were in a dark room and a light went on for a few minutes, I think what you’d notice, Gentle Reader, is the “averageness” of size, the glasses, and the colours. Which includes, I’m suddenly reminded, that I’m not caucasian. Look long enough, and I think you’d notice the silvering at the sideburns.

And you’d notice the twitch, because that’s the other dominating physical attribute of my life as a non-teenager. It’s a bit of nerve damage to the facial nerve on one side of my face (and in looking up the anatomy I discovered that in addition to the cause the doctor *told* me about, another potential source of the issue is a tumour which suddenly makes me realize just what they were checking for when they sent me in for that MRI. To which I reply, Gulp, and Yay no tumour!)

I was telling the Mouse that the lingering side effect is that it’s made my expressions just a little bit random. Now I get extra squints and twists in my smile and on the average it makes my faces, especially my smile, just a little bit crazy. (When things are acting up)

Of all the depredations of time, this facial tic weighs the most. On the plus side, it forces me to rest a little more, to stress a little less, to learn to relax the muscles of my face. But it also makes people judge me. They assume stress or anger, even when it isn’t there. It makes me stranger, and harder to trust when people first meet me. It makes me seem older.

The things that will make me eventually give in and get my face shot up with happy fun neurotoxin are that I can feel and see and sometimes even hear my face move. I have yet to find a way to describe the experience of your muscles moving without your control, except for people who have gotten a strong electrical shock with a muscle spasm. But it’s unpleasant. Psychologically, I mean, it’s painless otherwise.

It makes me anxious. Until the time that Nocturne and I manage to get our situations together enough to spend some time together and I’ve seen her see this, I’m never going to be entirely at ease about this physical attribute. I can deal with the sad looks from my relatives. I can deal with with the curiousity and rudeness of strangers. And she says I shouldn’t stress, so it’s not something in the foreground of my concerns, but on those occasions where I actually stop to see my reflection in the mirror, if my nerves are acting up, I fret.

And here’s a different data point. I consider myself okay looking, but nothing special. Whereas I have pictures of my parents when they were younger and they were both not just okay but actually attractive. And family tell me I look like my father (heck that guy I mentioned a few entries ago recognized me as my father’s kid at 25 even though he had no warning I was coming and hadn’t seen me since I was 10).

I can’t rationalize it. In theory, I can’t be unattractive, but I don’t see it. So for now, I defer to Nocturne who says I’m handsome. Even on the days where I can’t see it, if she does, I’m good.

My chick digs me.

*EDIT*

With some embarrassment, let me just say that I’m not fishing for compliments, I’m just reporting what I see in the mirror which includes what I feel about it. I’m not saying I’m not attractive, I’m just saying it’s not something I see, even though it seems like I should.

But hey, for fun, I will add this strange little tidbit: I’ve been told that my face reminds some folks of Sly Stallone, and others of Brendan Fraser.

I look nothing like either, even if we go black and white, but that’s what I’ve been told.