One hot night in the summer of 2012, I was standing in my bathroom looking at myself in the mirror with roommate. It was three in the morning, he was a little hammered and we were taking inventory on our looks, as gay men do at that hour on a Wednesday night.
My grandma had bat wing arms. Her arm jiggle fascinated us kids. My cousin Rachel would reach across Granny's corset-clad girth, tap the wrinkled drape of skin and shriek with half-delight, half-horror as the bat wing came to life.
Vain? I had thought that vanity was the evil queen in Snow White, gazing into her mirror, desperate to be the most beautiful in the land. Vanity, I knew, was always feminine. It was always about beauty.
Elizabeth Taylor once said that every wrinkle tells a story. Fine. When I was young Taylor's words of wisdom seemed great, but not now. Not to my generation who truly believed "all you need is love," not face cream.
What about developing a truer relationship with the man or woman in the mirror? Yes, look into your eyes, the proverbial windows to the soul. Get curious. Leave judgment behind. Take a breath. Don't listen to the harsh voices that might show up.