Last week, I left home in a hectic rush. That, of course, is not extremely unusual. In those last few precious moments before I leave the house, I have to drink my coffee while I sort out my notes and tasks for the day and at the same time blow-dry my hair or iron my clothes (or watch the latest Ricky Martin video on MTV). And we cannot forget the importance of having breakfast; I am like a crazed banshee if I do not eat in the morning. 
This time, however, I forgot something when I left: my mirror. Now, forgetting a mirror may not sound like such a big deal to you guys, but when I realized what had happened about ten minutes later (when I was attempting to perform the first routine mirror check-up before class), I went cold. "How am I going to survive the day without my mirror?" I thought glumly as I entered the lecture hall. The uneasiness deepened;  by noon I felt lost. (Plus I was getting sick of running every half hour to the nearest ladies' room to check my reflection.)
 Needless to say, I did not enjoy myself immensely that day. But you know what? I was disturbed by that fact,  and I found myself questioning my obsession with that little piece of reflecting glass. Why is it that I felt like I forgot my head instead of a stupid mirror? What is this bond between a girl and her mirror, that she cannot feel whole without it? 
For more than half my life, I have catered to a deep and very tempestuous relationship with my mirror. I have cried to her, grinned at her when she cooperated, screamed in vain when my hair looked like a bird's nest, sobbed when that huge zit hit my forehead, laughed with her when the color of my eyes looked just right in the light. She has warned me of impending doom when I had spinach stuck in my teeth, or when I had applied too much lipstick and looked somewhat like an extra on the set of a Broadway musical. Unfortunately, the depth of this fulfilling friendship implies a flaw that I am not too proud of: vanity. 
Vanity is not a pretty word. Do you notice how it screams at you from the paper you are currently reading? It stands out, and I do not care much for what it implies about me. You see, it shows that I may have a small problem with my system of values. Do I value my appearance so much that it precedes other, more important sides of life? I want to answer that question.
We live in a society where appearance is held in great importance. We set rules by it; we follow time and rank events by how we look. We evaluate our photographs so scrupulously that we forget the point behind them: fun.  It is true that how we feel greatly depends on how we look. I know this. When my hair looks like a limp piece of lettuce, my mood turns dangerously gloomy. When I feel like a blimp, my mind itself swells. I feel it blowing up inside my skull, to the point when I can no longer concentrate in class or on the conversation I happen to be stuck in. Those thoughts are normal (to a certain extent). What is not normal is letting how we look determine the outcome of the day. And that, my friends, is what I fear is happening in this society of ours. Or forget the society. That is what might be happening to me. 
With this realization in mind, I will set new ground rules. If I tear my looks apart at this tender age of 21, how will I feel ten, twenty, thirty years from now when mother nature takes her toll on my skin, hair, nails, and waist? Will I not be able to accept an older, more mature version of me? A disturbing thought. 

My friends, our reflection shows us bits and pieces of ourselves. But not everything we are is to be found in those few inches of glass. When we realize we are much more than what we can physically see, life will become more meaningful.  Now excuse me while I take a quick break in the ladies room. (Just one peak, I swear it.)