I'm still recovering from my last bad mirror experience weeks ago. The mirror in question was in an Orlando hotel (as if a trip to Florida itself isn't punishment enough for a snake-fearing, heat-avoiding, big city liberal) and it taunted me for an entire weekend, showing me cellulite in places I'd never seen cellulite before and sharp, black chin hairs that, as an obsessive plucker of all hairs , I knew for a fact had not been there prior to check-in. I was also grayish, like a dead body before it's been given the special pink-tint formaldehyde treatment . I left feeling horrible about myself because I am a person whose self-worth is in an inextricable relationship with physical appearance (at least I recognize it, ok?). Even my loyal mirror couldn't get me out of the funk; I'd seen things I couldn't soon forget.