There Are No Mirrors in Paradise

That's right, no mirrors. I noticed that right away when I moved aboard my boat. Well, actually, there is a small mirror, but it's in a dimly lit room, the head, and you can't get more than a foot and a half away from it, so it doesn't really count. In the daytime, it reflects with some accuracy the hair-do, face and, if I stand on my tiptoes, the upper third of my body along with whatever is adorning it. But after dark, basked in the light of a 12-volt lamp under a frosted globe, I look more like a Monet painting, sort of a bluey-greeny impressionistic blur.

And that's fine with me. I can only hope that everyone else sees me the way my mirror does. First of all, everything I have to wear on the boat has stains down the front-usually red wine with the occasional blotch of grease that has held on tenaciously through many spray 'n wash shock treatments. Then there's the hardened-on smudge across the bust caused by leaning on freshly varnished boat parts, the coffee dribble on the white shirts, or the occasional black streak of carbon on a sleeve flung there by an aggressive kerosene stove, none of which are fazed by the super agitating action of the washer.

My theory? Out of sight, out of mind. If you don't see it in a mirror, it isn't there! Besides, on our boat, the romantic lighting from the kerosene lamps highlight only the colors leaving the spotty details in the background. And I find that you can count on most people being much too polite to call spots and smudges to your attention, but if they do, treat it like we used to when someone called your attention to a run in your stocking (remember those days?). Simply conjure a look of disbelief and, with an "oh no," start brushing and rubbing the spot as though it must have just happened.

Of course, spots and smudges on the clothes can be cured by buying new ones, at least for 10 minutes or so. It's what mirrors reveal that only a plastic surgeon can fix that we just don't need to see. Let's face it: by the time we get to the place in life where we can afford to live bedecked in a bathing suit following Paradise Trail, we no longer need to dwell in front of a mirror. You know what I mean.

Though we don't have to deal with our full-body shots on the boat, there are mirrors OUT THERE waiting to snag you and ruin your day. For instance, resist the temptation to glance at your profile in the glass windows and doors that you pass by-they surely are not accurate reflections anyway, and they rarely err on the side of better-than-the-real- thing. Besides, your body in motion isn't necessarily your best suit, is it?

The worst offenders, though, are the department store dressing rooms. I'm sure that they hang the trick carnival mirrors in them that distort your figure, adding dimples and odd bulges, and then they bathe the rooms in those ghastly neon lights that accentuate every tiny wrinkle. The combination would make even Twiggy look like she needed to forego the pudding. I think they must set up cameras in those rooms, and then, with their twisted sense of humor, watch and laugh at the expression on your face when you get the full impact of your total body reflection after years of abstaining from that pleasure.

The way I see it is, so what if gravity's dirty work plus the extra cookies have had their way with my body? Who needs the reminders? I judiciously avoid these encounters, but if I accidentally see a full-length neon image, I use my antidote. I get up the next morning and walk with the sun at my back. It casts a nice, thin shadow just ahead of me so I can admire the slimming effects of cruising. Who's to say otherwise?

There are no scales in paradise either.