Once he’s gone, I return to the mirror. It is my altar. My cheekbones, my xylophone ribs, my flat stomach, my thigh gap—these are my sacraments. For so many years I hated the mirror. It showed me ugly, unbearable things. Now it is mostly a comfort. And when it’s not, when it demands more from me, appeasing it is a simple matter. The sacrifices it requires are so trivial in comparison to its rewards.
