Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Go away, Snow White. Don't forget to banish the evil queen from her looking glass. And pull Narcissus away from his pretty face smiling up from the tranquil water. Take it all away and what do you have? A very interesting challenge.

I met with my women's group on Sunday; our topic of discussion was plastic surgery, but we digressed to other thoughts, all generally centered on the effect of appearance in our lives. Firstly, allow me to reiterate how much I appreciate having this group of women. They challenge me and allow me to examine myself and the world. Also, they are affirming in my own identity. Given interaction with others, we learn that our various idiosyncrasies are generally not so very uncommon. Assuming we are not speaking of aberrant conduct, most others will exhibit similar behaviors. Whether we consider our propensity as women to be hypercritical of ourselves and our bodies, to be competitive with other women, especially for the attention of men, or to be meticulous about various aspects of our appearance, most all battle with issues that threaten to take hold and drag us under water. These supportive women aid in allowing me to traverse the sea.

So as we meandered through what motivates us to care so much for our physical appearance, someone mentioned how we tend to take advantage of every mirror or reflective surface we happen by. You check yourself before walking out of your apartment. You watch yourself in the mirrors of the elevator on the way down. Passing by shop windows, you look yourself up and down. We constantly reassess our appearance. Is it a narcissistic fascination with ourselves? Or possibly motivated by society's standards to always appear as beautiful? Or is it as mundane as making sure our skirts are not tucked into our underwear? Whatever the motivation, there is an undeniable call from the mirror.

I recounted once sitting in a coffee shop, sipping on my mocha and people-watching through the large windows that lined the street. As each person rushed to their various destinations, they turned toward the windows. But the eyes that should have seen me sitting there stopped at the image that, step for step, kept pace with them, mimicking the critically assessing stare.

"What if," Aisha suggested, "we were to take away mirrors for a whole day. Go an entire day without looking in the mirror." An entire day? We decided that not a single look might be a bit dangerous, seeing that we wouldn't wan to scare people with whom we work. So we settled on three times: once in the morning, after lunch, and at bedtime. Other than that, no mirrors, no shop windows, no blank computer screens. No looking at our reflections. Could we make a day?

I was excited to start. After getting ready in the bathroom in one go, I said goodbye to my mirror and walked out the door. Stepping into the elevator, I stood before myself. Quickly I dropped my gaze from the mirrored walls and stared at the floor. The subway posed a similar problem. As I flashed by in the passing windows, I had to glaze my eyes to look just below the window. At school, a mirror is set up in the teachers' room, inconveniently next to my desk; I made a few unconscious errors when I would stand up, me reappearing with an expression of surprise at being caught in the act. To glance at my reflection is such an unconscious act; I am so accustomed to knowing and checking how I look.

Not being allowed to see any sort of reflection caused me to be acutely aware of just how often I glance at myself. Yet I found that I liked it; to be unaware of my appearance was, in a way, freeing. I didn't really know how I looked, but I also didn't really care. I saved one of the times looking in the mirror for yoga; seeing as how one wall is lined with them, I knew looking would be unavoidable. All day I had been without my reflection. I found that as soon as I sat in front of the mirror again, I could feel criticisms of myself growing inside. Would, I wonder, life just be better without mirrors? Would we be happier if we were not so often confronted with our own image?

I also noticed throughout the day that I knew when and where to keep my head down and eyes averted. Meaning, I knew where all the mirrors or reflective windows are. Although I subconsciously look, or possibly merely attempt to surreptitiously catch glances, I have a sense of exactly where to look. It made me realize just how often I assess my appearance. It helped me to know how I could so often be critical of myself.

During one of my breaks yesterday, I killed time by reading a few articles online about cosmetic surgery in Asia. Although difficult to find exact statistics, Korea is known as the world's leading nation for plastic surgery with an estimated 50% of women in their 20's having undergone some sort of procedure; the rates for men are increasing exponentially. It's so sad, really. Not just the surgery. What's sad is exactly how much emphasis we place on the aesthetic appearance of ourselves and others. And though I recognize this, I am no better than anyone else. I assess people's appearances, I make assumptions about people, I make comparisons. Our culture is tied tightly to the ideal physical appearance; those who fall far outside that ideal can be treated poorly and unfairly.

One article is from the online version of "Time" magazine; in addition to the report of the trend of cosmetic surgery in Asia, it spoke of personal experiences from a number of Asian people who for some reason underwent surgery. One quote is by Sakaguchi, a Japanese woman teased mercilessly throughout her life based on her looks; a boyfriend told her he would have never dated her before the cosmetic surgery she underwent on her chin, eyes, and teeth.

"'I always wanted to believe people were ultimately judged by what was inside,' she muses, her gaze hesitant and sad. 'But I knew from my personal experience that this wasn't true. It's always the pretty girls who win the good things in life.'"

And apparently this is catching on in businesses. To gain an edge, men and women are going under the knife, trying to stand out from the crowd. This is discussed in another interesting article from Seoul Style. I was going to quote it, but realized that this would then be too long. (Thou darest to accuse me of a long-winded nature?!) So check it out on your own if you are interested.

I will, however, end with this small excerpt from said article:

"Perhaps the biggest risk of all is the impact of cosmetic surgery on Korean society. Korean people currently place so much emphasis on superficial appearance. One girl comments, 'It's becoming ingrained in people's minds that unless they look good, they can never amount to anything. Shouldn't people be regarded for who they are and what they have achieved rather than what they appear to be?' Is cosmetic surgery, in fact, contributing to the burgeoning vanity of a previously pragmatic and innocent society?"

If only we could answer all the "shouldn'ts."

Confessions of a Russian Spy

When did the Red Scare, McCarthyism and all that other craziness occur? Was that the late 40's to the 50's? Prompting every spy movie that came out to feature the evil, yet masculinely handsome Russians as the nefarious villains? Now I think we tend vilify the Arab nations, seeing as we're so keen to stereotype and ostracize. Anyway, I think it leaves us with some residue of resentment and suspicion at the cold war nation. Well, I dare to now confess to you that I am under suspicion as being a Russian spy.

Any good detective will mark the first clue as occurring several years ago in the summer of '01 when I studied in Moscow. Out with my class one day in one of the numerous parks scattered throughout the city, we walked among the various and sundry statues. This particular park showcased the disgrace of the evils perpetrated by the communist regime, displaying headless statues of Stalin, a depiction of the mass murders, and various other leaders. As we stood before an imposing 20 foot statue of, I believe, Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky, I exclaimed, "Cool! The KGB!" My excitement was sparked not by my historical interest or any affinity for this organization, but rather due to its role in my then favorite program, Alias. Nonetheless, it drew withering stares from my classmates, all of whom failed to share my enthusiasm.

My excitement exhibited for the founder of what would become the KGB is insufficient evidence to indict me as a spy, however. So allow me to continue.

A surprising number of Russians live in Korea, having migrated here to escape the communist regime. Given few opportunities for work, I suppose, the women gained a reputation as being prostitutes. This is a stereotype that has been ingrained into the minds of older Koreans. Thus, when asked if you are a Russian, you are essentially being solicited. Vexingly, I am often asked if I am Russian.

Initially not realizing the connotations to this question, I once was cornered by a man in a train station who queried in English, "Russian?" Hoping to deter him from talking with me, I answered in Russian that I don't speak any English. Rather than deterring him, however, he took this as an acceptance of his unspoken question. I ended up shoving him away and he began to irately yell at me. I quickly learned my lesson. I now emphatically emphasize that I am not Russian.

Just before leaving Korea to go home, the evening of the Bambi incident, I was to meet Mel and Liz for dinner near the beach. The summer traffic is so dense that I decided to exit the taxi early and walk to the restaurant. While waiting to cross the street at a traffic light, a man on a motorcycle turned the corner. Coming to an abrupt stop, he examined me and stated with a confident question, "Russian?" I answered with a roll of my eyes and a shake of my head. "Uh," he grunted, reassessing me. "American?" spoken with a hint of hopefulness. Not wanting to lie and merely hoping for the light to change, I shrugged my shoulders and nodded, looking away. "Ah," he said satisfactorily and again confidently. "Have sex?!" So shocked at this directness that I just started laughing, I managed to get out a scandalized and emphatic, "NO!" as I illegally crossed the street to escape him, laughing uproariously.

Later that evening, out with John and Pierre, I retold the story yet again. Shrugging, John pointed out casually, "Well, he probably thought if you were Russian, he'd have to pay; if you were American, he could get it for free!" Oh, sad. Because that's probably exactly what he thought.

Regardless of my insistence at not being Russian, I am generally suspected by most Koreans to simply be lying. This leads me to my final confession.

Last week was still vacation for me, so while friends were working, I filled my days with various activities. On Thursday I decided to go hiking on Jang Mountain, a 15 minute walk from my apartment. Arming myself with a water bottle and my Ipod, I took off a little before 10 am (lazy girl... I slept in). The hiking was glorious, really. Once I reached beyond the outdoor exercise area filled with active Koreans, the path became quiet and serene. Only seldomly did I pass other hikers. Deciding to explore, I took a number of paths off the main one, hoping to be rewarded with seclusion and grand views. I found both and enjoyed the time wandering. After hiking for two hours and nearly finishing my water, I decided that I should turn around. I did so and began the way back. As the trail meandered, I remember thinking that it looked unfamiliar. But I kept walking, assuming it would feed me onto my initial path. If you have any sort of perception whatsoever, you will be able to follow where my story is going: I got lost. As I kept going down, though, I assumed that I would eventually reach the bottom. Were it to be different than my point of origin, finding my way back would be easy enough.

This brings us about 3 hours in, the water finished long ago, the heat starting to get to me. I was walking along a road at this point, which I took to be a good sign, meaning that it would eventually connect with the city below. And though I passed a sign showing an "x" on this road, I prayed that the Korean, roughly translated, read something like, "Road closed for construction. Find alternate route. Except for hikers, of course." If so, I would merely make my way around the construction and keep going down. It was a steep decline and so I walked quickly, trying to think about how hungry I was as opposed to how thirsty I was because the need for food was significantly less.

A half hour after passing the sign, I came upon a gated area with a booth set up next to it. As I approached, a young Korean in uniform stepped out with an intimidatingly large gun. "Ahn yeong ha say yo," I said lightly, explaining in Korean that I don't speak Korean. With a shy smile, he called to the other guard, who spoke English.

"No, no. This is military. No go here," he said.

"Oh," I managed, wanting to cry. "So I have to go back?"

"Yes," he said somewhat apologetically.

"Oh," I repeated, shoulders sagging. As I turned and began walking up, I wheeled around and asked, "Can I just have a little water?"

He nodded empathetically and brought out a 2 liter bottle. I drank about half, thanked him, then turned again to make my way up. By my calculations, this meant that the hike up and then around to the correct path would be at least another two hours. Whimpering, I began to imagine myself dying on little Jang mountain, eaten by the lone wild deer in Korea.

The hike up was excruciatingly difficult, given that the slope was about 60 or 70 degrees, the heat was intense, the humidity was as thick as the ocean, and I had no water. I began praying for any car to come by; I would, for the first time ever, hitchhike. But, while ten cars passed me going down, no cars came up. Twenty minutes into walking up, I heard a stream trickling off the rocks. With animal instincts, I bounded from the road and pounced on the helpless water. I filled my water bottle twice and drank all in it. Filling it for a third time for the road, I got back on and felt somewhat revived.

Altogether, it took me 45 minutes to reach the sign again, which I consider rather impressive given the conditions. Just after passing it, I heard the noise of a car approaching. Jumping into the road, I held out two hands to stop it. Thankfully, they obliged. It was a green van with three Korean gentlemen in it. "Excuse me," I said in Korean. "I don't speak Korean." Then the sign language came out. "Me (pointing at self) molayo (Korean for "I don't know," coupled with looking all around me, confused). In car (pointing from myself to in the vehicle)? Jangsan park (the name of my starting point)." They obliged and allowed me in. I sat in the back and they immediately handed me a water bottle (I hid the remains of my stream water). The man in front of me expressed disgust and kept looking at me, likely because I appeared to have just stepped out, fully clothed, from a shower.

They did a U-turn in the car and began back down the hill. "No," I said, surprised. But then I kept quiet, not wanting to confuse them ("No, you don't want a ride down the mountain?") and realizing that it would be easy to backtrack when they were turned away. Down, down, down. As we reached the gate, I prepared for the interrogation as to their business on base. But the guard merely saluted as the driver waved, continuing down the road. Another five minutes and we were at the base next to the road. Thanking them profusely, I tried to pay them. But Koreans never accept money for acts of kindness. So I thanked them more, said, "Sarang hey-o!" or "I love you!" and left.

Now I have a deeply philosophical question to pose. If I were to have been Korean, would I have been turned back at the gate? Did they spot me coming, nudge eachother and whisper, "Russian spy," as I approached? Apparently I appeared to be very dangerous, a rogue spy armed with an empty water bottle and practically crawling to keep moving. In any case, it wasn't a risk they considered worth taking.

So if I am ever arrested as a Russian spy, you will be able to shrug, nod your head knowingly, and sigh, "I always supsected as much."

Belated Everything

As you may have deduced, I am again back in Korea. I assumed that, given I had 1 1/2 weeks before my rigorous work schedule resumed, I would have plenty of time to blog. But, as a Master Procrastinator, I have thus far managed to avoid this task. I've spent time with friends instead. Which is good. Because after such an amazing trip home, it was really, exceptionally, extremely, (insert additional superlatives here) hard to come back. But in coming back, I realize that I also love my friends here, and I think that's very healthy to know. Good for me.

And so Procrastination Girl returns to the computer. Yet showcasing her trepidation at commitment, refuses to pledge to a full post. So you get my belated post about, well, nothing, really. Can I post about merely procrastinating? About not calling people I need to call, or not working on what should be done, or not planning various days that might appreciate the effort? About waking up in a very schedule-oriented manner (8 or 9 am every morning), but then filling the day with various busy nothings? And anyone who is a procrastinator (which, given that you are reading this post, I assume you are) will understand this and why it has been such a wonderful week for me. To put off is to allow so many more unexpected pleasures.

Yesterday, for example, I chose to go hiking in the morning rather than clean my apartment. And on Tuesday, I lay on the beach all day rather than preparing anything for school. I have seen many friends and spent time relaxing in this country that is my quasi-home. To move aside from any sarcasm whatsoever, to be perfectly candid, it has been really hard to come back. I miss home. All of my annoyances and frustrations that I hoped were a product of being over-tired and would be rectified in going home waited for me upon my arrival at the airport. As I stated earlier, I love my friends here. And they are my life-blood in this country. Because, to play the role of the embittered, jaded old woman, I find that I just don't like Korea anymore.

That being said and accepted, however, I have decided to recognize it, yet not dwell upon it. There are too many good aspects to living here to focus on the trivial annoyances that confront me. Yesterday during the hike, I breathed the clean fresh air so dense with humidity that the wild scents meandered lazily in the heat. This morning I returned to my old school, SLP, to see my kids at the monthly birthday party. As I surveyed the room, smiling at the shrieks of "Aubrey-teacher, Aubrey-teacher!" and little heads twisting back to see me, I realized that I need to be with this age group. My job is great, really. Who could complain at three months of paid vacation? But I miss those kids so much. Junior high just isn't my thing. And tonight, my friends are throwing me a belated birthday party. A room full of people who are really important to me.

So while this is not the place I hope to settle, I strive for the contentment in all the good that is here. At my heart, I am an optimist. And although I've been describing the empty space that hovers in the top half of my glass, I cling tightly to the knowledge of the sweet, delicious life that resides in the bottom half.

Tick Tock, Tick Tock

Well, that's it. The clock has run down and it's time again to leave home. Back to Korea. I didn't realize how hard it would be to leave. I caught myself praying for a tornado to shut down O'hare Airport. But, like most of this past month at home, it's beautiful and sunny, so I guess God doesn't listen to those kind of prayers.

When I get back, I don't start work for another week and a half, so I'll be able to update you (probably with more information than you care about) on my full trip home. Alright, leaving for the airport. See you back in Korea. Or see you a lot later than that. Time goes too quickly.

Quarter of a Century

I have decided that it takes an entire week to celebrate my birthday. So although I am posting this on August 5 (incidentally my mom's birthday), I am dating it as August 1st, my birthday. And why not? After all, I am now one quarter of a century. Don't ask me the significance of this other than I feel it should be significant. Perhaps the turn is this is the age where I begin to fudge a little (translation: lie) about my age. There is some sort of dense reality at age 25.

As a child, 25 was the age of an adult, no different from 40. I assumed at this age that I would be married with children. But I still feel like a child. The falsehood of this feeling was pronounced today by a wise 6 year old, a neighbor's child playing on the beach. My mom, who is instantly friends with any child she meets, was playing around with her. After my mom walked into the water, I said, "You know, it's my mom's birthday today!"

Incredulously she stared at me, appraising me, then responded, "She's your mom?!" As if I were too old to have a mother. Just another adult. So here I am at 25, not a girl, not yet a woman (NO! Beat Britney back with a stick, suppress the urge to sing a really bad song!). Happily will I embrace this new age, however. I have long anticipated embracing my proper age, gracefully growing in years. Though it now surprises me that I begin to ponder that.

If this past glorious birthday week has been any indication of how this year will be, I am eager to meet it. There is too much to write now, but I promise to spectacularly bore you with details later. Jess was here, here being the cottage. I celebrated with family. And tomorrow after church I leave with my mom, grandma, and sister to meet Daane and Chad on the Appalachian trail. Yes, I will be a hiker. In the heat reaching over 100 degrees (which, for our Celsius friends, exceeds 38 degrees), they continued to hike nearly 30 miles (sigh... 48 kilometers) per day. So pardon me while I get my beauty sleep. Once again, I've been having too much fun to go to bed.

Lots of love,
Aub

P.S. To all who have emailed, I'm terribly sorry. I just haven't. I promise to do it later, when (gulp... if) I get time. Thank you so much to those of you who emailed me on my birthday. Major bonus points to you.