No this isn’t another sketch review. That’ll be coming tomorrow. It’s storytime.

The other day I was complaining to a friend about how I didn’t like doing the stretches that I’ve demanded myself to do recently. It isn’t because the physical strain is too great, or because I don’t see the point, or because it’s making me question my mortality if at age 22 I’m having trouble bending to the side. It’s because it is boring. So I asked my friend: “How do you make stretching not horribly boring.” He replied: “Well I watch TV, then at least I’m entertained.” I agreed: “Yeah, I look in the mirror.”

After his coughing fits of laughter it took me a second before I realized the absurdity of my previous statement. To me equating a tube meant to provide entertainment with a moving picture of myself seemed reasonable.

When I was a young boy (as if I’m not still), my parents set up our dinner table so that one side was against the wall. This was because there were only three of us, and if we weren’t going to seat Brown Bear or White Rabbit than the empty side to the rectangle would glare at us depressingly. Our house is entirely composed of windows also, so that wall that our dinner table was up against was a wall of windows. Windows at night act as mirrors (sort of).

My parents learned this pretty soon after I did and therefore asked me to sit at the only seat that wasn’t facing toward any of these window/mirrors. So, I turned. I turned my head during my parents’ boring discussions of financial stability, and peace protests, and future plans and I made faces at myself.

These faces led me to the life I lead now. The same life where I disregard my body’s screams that I am getting older and less able to move, my wallet’s screams that its lack of heft means I need to get a job, and my parents’ screams for me to find purpose in life and instead spend my first 20 minutes of every day in front of a mirror making faces.