I don’t know what I look like.
Oh, I know in general terms: pasty, dark brown hair, gray bits in the sideburns, green eyes. And that’s it. Am I fat? I feel fat, but then I look at someone with a big pot belly and think, I work out almost every day. Am I maybe just seeing myself as fat because I was rail-thin for so long? Am I handsome? I don’t feel handsome, but then I look at my former romantic partners and think, While I prefer women who enjoy substance, surely they can’t all have been dating me for my wit and wisdom.
Once upon a time, I tried to explain to an ex-girlfriend. She stared at me as if I were crazy. “Play along with me,” I pressed. “When we’re walking down the street, and you see someone who looks like me, let me know.”
I can see other people. I can draw them. Actually, I worry that I stare at them too long, memorizing their features, sketching them on a mental sheet of paper, taking aesthetic pleasure in their appearances no matter whether they’re actually what we think of as beautiful. My spirits were high after that conversation: I could see other people so well, once the ex pointed out someone similar, I could apply that template over my own self-image!
She never spoke up, and soon we were apart. I haven’t asked anyone since.
