My mirror doesn’t tell me I’m getting older. It does say to me that I’m changing, but not in the ways society says it is. Those who know I attempt to be a clever writer might say that my ‘play-on-words’ statements make sense perhaps only to me.
Example? ‘I’m youthful because I have no youth.’
Hah.
Childfrees get it. I don’t act as old, or look as tired as
parents. I grow gray hair—that I’ll cover with bottled color—simply because my
hair is changing with age. I see that my skin hangs slightly, but not so
greatly from age as much as weight loss. When I was heavier, the mirror showed
me younger, too. My Mah used to say the fat smoothed out any wrinkles gained
from age. The mirror recognizes some shadowing under my eyes, but that was
sadness, not lack of sleep from a crying baby, or a teenager flouting a curfew.
It’s none of your business what the melancholy was about. It comes and it goes
normally. What’re you wistful about? My dejectedness only lasts long enough for
me to remember I can visit Powell’s Books at the drop of a hat. To type away at
a blog very few read. (Apparently, I have a minute fan base in Russia; really
can’t tell if that’s a good thing at the moment)
And the mirror also tells me what one of my brothers impulsively revealed a
while back. “You’re kind of starting to look like Mah.” Okay, most daughters
DON’T want to be anything like their mothers. And, I’m not fooling myself by
saying I don’t act like she did; I know I don’t because I’m a Gemini, and she
was a Leo. Totally different identities.
In any case, I don’t mind the reflection resembling her. It makes the one
brother happy. It makes me content because it means I don’t fully resemble my father—aged
thirty-plus years older, and recently admitting the wisdom in asking my youngest brother to string up the house’s Xmas lights. I’ve promised Da I won’t tease
him about his Sunday morning ‘church nod’ anymore as long as he stays off that
damn ladder. (Shudder!)
The mirror at work makes me look even younger; coffee-themed, Covid face-mask,
safety goggles, and 26dB protective ear-muffs. That’s when the shadowy eyes are
revealed more; late-night writing rather than sleeping. My fault, but I’d never
complain—caffeine fixes everything. ☕
I’m not one to look deeply in the mirror for signs of ageing,
or to cover it with a trowel of foundation. Olay moisturizer, sure. Noticing it’s
time to color, yah! The only thing about my reflection that makes me grimace is
the McConnell-style turkey neck I’ll eventually end up with. Lawd, I hope I
have enough in savings for a neck-lift!
But mostly, my mirror reflects an independent person who knows how to look out
for herself. What I don’t know, the internet, and the Golden Girls, will teach
me.
