“I just want a diet coke,” she said, as they walked through the theater door. “Go ahead and I’ll meet you on the right side. I need to use the ladies’ room”. As she scurried off, her eyes perused the walls for the typical logo indicating restrooms or, specifically, the women’s bathroom. Aha. There it is. As she walked by the mirror on the way to the stall her peripheral vision caught a body and head that looked familiar. She turned to look and say hello and then realized it was her. It was her, but it wasn’t her. Oh dear. She stopped, turned to the mirror for a full frontal and gasped. “That’s me?” she thought. OK. Get a grip. Now is not the time to evaluate where the hell you went wrong. Your husband is waiting and the movie is starting in a minute. She forced herself to move toward the stall and not think about what she had just seen. When she returned to the sink and bent over to turn on the faucet she again concentrated on the mirror. This time all she saw was her face. Good God. “Once I get home, I’m never leaving the house again,” she said to herself.
Later that evening, after they’d returned home from the movie she snuck into her bathroom, took off her clothes stood in front of the mirror and just stared. “Where did I go?” “How did this happen?” “How did I not notice?” “Who is this woman?” were the thoughts that tumbled around in her head. This must be akin to waking up from a coma twenty years later. You conk out looking young, pretty and perky and you wake up looking old, tired and dumpy. Had she been in an emotional coma these past few years? After all, she did stand in front of this very mirror at least twice a day to wash up and brush her teeth. She looked at herself every day. How did she not see?
She stepped closer to the mirror, leaned forward so she was nearly nose to nose with herself and took a good hard look. Who are you? Where have you been? What happened to you? Why didn’t you take better care of yourself? You should have spent more money on face creams and dermatologists. A nose job wouldn’t have hurt. I wonder how much an eye job is. And, the frown? When did that show up? Do I now have a permanent frown? She stood up straight again, closed her eyes and counted to ten. Then she opened her eyes as she smiled and looked in the mirror. OK. Now I look like a happy hag. Well, I guess that’s improvement.
Where had she read that Coco Channel had said that God gives us our young face and we are responsible for our older face, the one we deserve? Did she deserve this? Did she deserve to have someone reflect back to her an image that was totally foreign? This isn’t the person I know or knew. This woman looks like she’s lived through a few things. Well, I guess I have, but does every little bad thing that has ever happened to me have to be recorded on my face? My eyes look like they’ve seen a lot. Maybe too much? If I wear more eye make up can I make them look more innocent? She was sure there was probably mascara called “innocent lashes”. The demographic target of this product was women like herself who would rather buy expensive mascara than pay for a facelift. The ad copy would tout something like “brush it on and wipe off years”. Ah, if only mascara were the magic wand of life. Looking at herself and deeply into her own eyes she knew mascara wasn’t going to make a difference. If the eyes are the passage to the soul, she mused, I am terrified to think what my poor blessed soul looks like.
OK. Let’s look at this face and see what it tells me. If I am a total stranger to this woman looking back at me then maybe I can get to know her. She remembered the old passport photo she had found the other day when looking for something else. That day, it hadn’t struck her how different the photographed face was from the one she now had. She remembered glancing at the photo and thinking how dark and shiny her hair was and how vibrant she looked and then tossed it aside in pursuit of the photos she was looking for. Now, she remembered that passport photo. She remembered the long, straight dark hair and the suntanned face that smiled out at her. She even remembered that young woman. She was so full of life and curiosity. She was so naïve. That’s it! That’s why I look so different. I am no longer naïve. That’s what shows on my face. I know. I know what life is and I know what life can do and be. Each wrinkle and furrow and flake on my face represents a page in my story book. Chapter one started the little curls at the corners of each eye. Chapter two gently brushed on the shallow crack in my forehead. Chapter three was a doozy and it slapped on the tiny crevices around my mouth. Chapter four must have added the jaw that so pathetically sagged.
But this is all vanity, she thought. Why am I looking at this creature in terms of youthful beauty? Why even compare her to the way she looked thirty years ago? What’s the purpose in that? It doesn’t make sense to contrast the two images. Images, exactly. Not people. Not lives. She had been comparing the superficial appearances of her old passport photo with the current reflection in the mirror. This woman clearly had qualities and advantages her younger self couldn’t have even conceived of. She has lived. Isn’t that what she was supposed to do? Life had been occasionally rough so her face was no longer smooth. Disappointments had dimmed her youthful radiance. Loss of innocence had created a spiritual depth that was illustrated in her eyes. She has been around the block. Sometimes she went around blocks that were detours fraught with flashing lights and pot holes. Sometimes she went around the block so fast she made herself dizzy. She’d seen and done a thing or two and it did and should show on her face. My God, she thought, military officers proudly wear badges and stripes to indicate what they’ve accomplished. They have medals of distinction they wear to silently communicate that they’ve been through hell and back. Damn it, my face is my badge of honor, she thought to herself. What I now see are not flaws. They are signs of courage and strength, even hope. Each imperfection on my face reflects an accomplishment of my spirit and the evolution of my life and soul.
She looked again in the mirror and this time recognized the woman who looked back. There you are! Here I am! It is you! Wow, some life, huh? And there’s even more to come.
Later that evening, after they’d returned home from the movie she snuck into her bathroom, took off her clothes stood in front of the mirror and just stared. “Where did I go?” “How did this happen?” “How did I not notice?” “Who is this woman?” were the thoughts that tumbled around in her head. This must be akin to waking up from a coma twenty years later. You conk out looking young, pretty and perky and you wake up looking old, tired and dumpy. Had she been in an emotional coma these past few years? After all, she did stand in front of this very mirror at least twice a day to wash up and brush her teeth. She looked at herself every day. How did she not see?
She stepped closer to the mirror, leaned forward so she was nearly nose to nose with herself and took a good hard look. Who are you? Where have you been? What happened to you? Why didn’t you take better care of yourself? You should have spent more money on face creams and dermatologists. A nose job wouldn’t have hurt. I wonder how much an eye job is. And, the frown? When did that show up? Do I now have a permanent frown? She stood up straight again, closed her eyes and counted to ten. Then she opened her eyes as she smiled and looked in the mirror. OK. Now I look like a happy hag. Well, I guess that’s improvement.
Where had she read that Coco Channel had said that God gives us our young face and we are responsible for our older face, the one we deserve? Did she deserve this? Did she deserve to have someone reflect back to her an image that was totally foreign? This isn’t the person I know or knew. This woman looks like she’s lived through a few things. Well, I guess I have, but does every little bad thing that has ever happened to me have to be recorded on my face? My eyes look like they’ve seen a lot. Maybe too much? If I wear more eye make up can I make them look more innocent? She was sure there was probably mascara called “innocent lashes”. The demographic target of this product was women like herself who would rather buy expensive mascara than pay for a facelift. The ad copy would tout something like “brush it on and wipe off years”. Ah, if only mascara were the magic wand of life. Looking at herself and deeply into her own eyes she knew mascara wasn’t going to make a difference. If the eyes are the passage to the soul, she mused, I am terrified to think what my poor blessed soul looks like.
OK. Let’s look at this face and see what it tells me. If I am a total stranger to this woman looking back at me then maybe I can get to know her. She remembered the old passport photo she had found the other day when looking for something else. That day, it hadn’t struck her how different the photographed face was from the one she now had. She remembered glancing at the photo and thinking how dark and shiny her hair was and how vibrant she looked and then tossed it aside in pursuit of the photos she was looking for. Now, she remembered that passport photo. She remembered the long, straight dark hair and the suntanned face that smiled out at her. She even remembered that young woman. She was so full of life and curiosity. She was so naïve. That’s it! That’s why I look so different. I am no longer naïve. That’s what shows on my face. I know. I know what life is and I know what life can do and be. Each wrinkle and furrow and flake on my face represents a page in my story book. Chapter one started the little curls at the corners of each eye. Chapter two gently brushed on the shallow crack in my forehead. Chapter three was a doozy and it slapped on the tiny crevices around my mouth. Chapter four must have added the jaw that so pathetically sagged.
But this is all vanity, she thought. Why am I looking at this creature in terms of youthful beauty? Why even compare her to the way she looked thirty years ago? What’s the purpose in that? It doesn’t make sense to contrast the two images. Images, exactly. Not people. Not lives. She had been comparing the superficial appearances of her old passport photo with the current reflection in the mirror. This woman clearly had qualities and advantages her younger self couldn’t have even conceived of. She has lived. Isn’t that what she was supposed to do? Life had been occasionally rough so her face was no longer smooth. Disappointments had dimmed her youthful radiance. Loss of innocence had created a spiritual depth that was illustrated in her eyes. She has been around the block. Sometimes she went around blocks that were detours fraught with flashing lights and pot holes. Sometimes she went around the block so fast she made herself dizzy. She’d seen and done a thing or two and it did and should show on her face. My God, she thought, military officers proudly wear badges and stripes to indicate what they’ve accomplished. They have medals of distinction they wear to silently communicate that they’ve been through hell and back. Damn it, my face is my badge of honor, she thought to herself. What I now see are not flaws. They are signs of courage and strength, even hope. Each imperfection on my face reflects an accomplishment of my spirit and the evolution of my life and soul.
She looked again in the mirror and this time recognized the woman who looked back. There you are! Here I am! It is you! Wow, some life, huh? And there’s even more to come.
2 comments:
The most recent More magazine quotes Drew Barrymore, age 35, as saying that she accepts her wrinkles and gravity related changes because of the wisdom she's gained with age. That's it, I'm cancelling my subscription.
I remember the first time I looked in the mirror and saw my mother staring back at me! But you know what- we are all so much MORE today than we ever were at 20 or 30!
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