I Almost Think I’m Fit

Rewriting my reflection

I’m looking at myself in the mirror and I almost think I’m fit.
I don’t know if there’s a disorder that’s the opposite of anorexia, but if there is, I have it.

That’s because the way we see ourselves is deeply subjective.

Even when we make an honest effort to be factual and self-critical, we remain trapped inside our own point of view. We see ourselves from the inside. Others see us from the outside. And those two versions rarely match.

Let’s keep the focus on me: I consider myself an excellent communicator.

But that’s only according to my own definition of what communicating well means. If I ask my wife, she’ll say that I speak and write very well — and right after that she’ll add that it’s almost impossible to talk to me when the subject is something I did wrong or something I don’t agree with, and that this is a huge communication barrier.

This is where another dance begins between me and my partner, but to the sound of completely different songs.

Let’s say I put the dishes away, still a little wet.
No problem for me, a big deal for her.

Now, the last thing I want is to argue over a plate or a poorly dried glass, even knowing that her arguments are valid. I have more important things to occupy my mind — or so I tell myself. So I do what seems logical: I say I accept the mistake and move on.

Ok, I was wrong. It’s acknowledged. We can drop the subject.

To me, this is proof that I take criticism well and recognize my faults. There was a problem, I admitted my part, case closed.

In my head, this is perfectly logical.

In her head, it sounds like avoidance.
Proof that I’m not able to discuss a mistake of mine, even one as trivial as a poorly dried glass.

To me, moving on is maturity.
To her, it’s dodging the discomfort of facing my flaws.

She’s right.

My default mode when dealing with uncomfortable situations is almost always the same: ignore them. Pretend that if I don’t think too much about the issue, it loses strength. As if mistakes could simply erase themselves from the balance sheet of life.

It’s a kind of mental time travel: I jump to a future where the problem is already gone and wait for the rest of the world to catch up with me there. Maybe this is just my way of outrunning problems instead of facing them.

I like to think I do this because I’m someone who avoids conflict. The truth is, I’m mostly avoiding the discomfort of showing my flawed self — and stepping down from the pedestal I quietly built for myself.

I say that arguing is rarely worth it, because very few people are truly willing to change their minds. I convince myself that dialogue is almost never real dialogue — just two people waiting for their turn to speak.

Of course, from the outside, this is a weak excuse.

I’m sure many people would think exactly the same about me: that I’m not really open to changing my ideas, that I prefer to impose my point of view, that I shut down when I’m confronted.

And they’re probably right.

I say I’m open to changing my opinion, but in practice I only allow myself to be convinced by those who argue within the framework I consider correct. In other words, I remain the judge and the jury of my own case.

The good thing about writing these thoughts is that it forces me to look at myself with some distance. When I reread what I’ve just written, I can imagine a reader rolling their eyes and thinking how snobbish and self-important I sound.

I just did it myself.

But aren’t we all a bit like that? Snobs convinced that our view of the world is the right one?

There are well-known statistics showing that around 80% of drivers believe they drive better than average. I bet similar results would appear when it comes to intelligence, reason, or the way we see the world.

Human beings have an almost irresistible tendency to think they’re better than they really are in the areas they value most. I’m no exception.

The way we see ourselves is always a story we tell ourselves — an edited, polished, slightly improved version of reality.

Writing about this gives me moments of clarity — it helps me look at myself through a more honest filter, trying to see who I am from the inside and not only from the outside. It’s writing that puts me in front of the mirror and allows me to see who’s staring back from the other side.

And the mirror never lies.
We’re the ones who choose the angle that only shows our good side.

The hard part is finding the courage to see the whole body — and to write about what we see.

I’m looking at myself in the mirror.
And I no longer think I’m fit.