windows and mirrors

A few people have joked that I’m the ‘How I Met Your Mother Window Girl’, most notably my best male friend a few Christmases ago, which went a lot like this:

‘I just want to say that you’re the window girl and I need to tell you I love you before you meet your next boyfriend, also, I have drunk a lot of egg nog’, he then proceeded to pass out while still on the phone.

My female best friend called me no less than a week after the break up and said frantically,


I replied with a firm ‘No way, jose!’ and she breathed an audible sigh of relief.

‘Okay I’ll call in a couple of days in case it changes. Don’t be the window girl this time!’

I don’t know how I got to be that girl, the one who has trouble recognising the infinite amounts of happiness on hand when she’s completely alone and at peace with herself. I’ve been single for seven whole weeks now – count them – seven! And although these weeks have been frought with an endless array of unneccessary drama and OTT ridiculous love declarations from unwanted suitors, the truth is I’ve never been happier, more comfortable or more confident with myself than I am right now.

I have so much clarity all of a sudden. I see people through a translucent window, see right through them in order to see what’s on the other side, waiting for me. I see myself even more resolutely: like a photo that comes with one million pixels.

Speaking of photos and clarity, I found this photo from over a year ago that I had taken one day, bored and miserable at Christmas lunch and pissed off because we were the only family who had shown up for my grandmother. So I went into my old room in her house and I took pictures through a mirror, making an array of ridiculous facial expressions. There was only one serious one I took and I think I liked it the most, but I probably didn’t really care about it and quickly forgot about it. After the break up, I found the photo, stared at it for five minutes and then decided to upload it. People reacted quickly to it, everyone had an opinion about this photo and what was happening, but most interestingly, it seemed they wanted to know who took the photo, which is adorable because, as you now know, it was me who took the photo while looking into a mirror. Don’t question the genius composition of the epic artistic selfie guys; just let it wash over you.

And I think what I have come to love about this photo is that it’s how I truly (quite literally) see myself. It’s the most accurate representation of who I was in that one moment in time and who I still am today, albeit a blurry, slightly out of focus version. What remains is a fiercely strong yet sensitive warrior, someone willing to love despite the hardships. Someone so capable of loving others in all forms but still resolutely determined to love herself above all else.

And on that note, here is something that made me shiver with adrenaline.

What most people call loving consists of picking out a woman and marrying her. They pick her out, I swear, I’ve seen them. As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked out in the middle of the courtyard. They probably say that they pick her out because-they-love-her, I think it’s just the opposite. Beatrice wasn’t picked out, Juliet wasn’t picked out. You don’t pick out the rain that soaks you to a skin when you come out of a concert.
Julio Cortázar


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