Age
I'm 36 today. It's not a special milestone or one of those landmark divisible-by-five birthdays. And true enough, I feel about the same today as I did yesterday when that number was lower.
But the shift that accompanies age has found me. It can no longer be ignored.
Sitting down to apply my makeup, I hold the hand mirror close to my face for the sake of my slowly waning eyesight. It's a different person who greets me there.
She looks tired. Already. Still. Bright eyed and bushy tailed died long ago. Dry, red eyes screaming for drops that only enhance the imperfections.
Bags and black circles in it for the long haul. A crow's foot. Just one, on the side that smiles bigger. Raised eyebrows now relaxed, a few crinkled-forehead lines hang around. And oh, the brown spots.
They have taken over, enough that the cheap minimalist makeup no longer has a fighting chance. Everywhere, almost like freckles, except bigger and splotchier and ugly as sin.
The skin-colored lipstick tube of concealer once used to hide zits of youth now masking the marks of years.
She's never been satisfied at what stares back from the mirror. Enough that she avoids it. Stays long enough to aim for non-repulsive in the head region, throws on comfortable clearance clothes and flip flops, then doesn't come back until the next day.
There was a song? poem? speech? from the year she graduated high school called "Wear Sunscreen", and one lyric read:
In 20 years you'll look back
at photos of yourself and recall
in a way you can't grasp now...
how fabulous you really looked.
You're not as fat as you imagine.
It's been exactly twenty years. And the truth stings.
As does realizing the number of your age is actually how old you are. She's never before felt the number. Spent most of her boys' earlier years thinking, how on earth am I old enough to have these children?
Those gorgeous, glamorous TV and movie stars she followed and admired in her prime? They're looking rough these days, y'all.
The brain's ultimate deception. Sure, time is passing, but for those couple of decades, one somehow truly believes they aren't changing at all.
Until she sees the brown spots and remembers, yes, she is getting older, and every tear and prayer and fear and worry of the last two grueling years have etched themselves permanently into her face.
I feel the number now.
I'm waiting for the white hair. With all the stress I'm under and then the equal amount I create for myself, it should probably already be there.
Then I remember that I haven't even remotely seen the hard part of parenting yet, and I'm thankful that there's something still untouched by the birthdays.
Time will continue its relentless march. The hair will turn white. The wrinkles will spread and deepen. The dark spots will multiply along this strange journey. Stuff will just ache.
But in this moment, I'm only 36. So, I'm gonna keep packing as much life into every day as I can. I'm gonna paint my toenails and jump up and down at the idea of going to see a musical and sing at the top of my lungs to the big hair band classics.
I'm gonna keep on being apparently the only mom in the world who nixes the perfectly messy ponytail, giant sunglasses, and expensive float, to jump into the pool with her kids, go all the way under, and play spider and diving sticks with them. Because, at least right now, they'll let me.
The mirror betrays, but my cup overflows.
But the shift that accompanies age has found me. It can no longer be ignored.
Sitting down to apply my makeup, I hold the hand mirror close to my face for the sake of my slowly waning eyesight. It's a different person who greets me there.
She looks tired. Already. Still. Bright eyed and bushy tailed died long ago. Dry, red eyes screaming for drops that only enhance the imperfections.
Bags and black circles in it for the long haul. A crow's foot. Just one, on the side that smiles bigger. Raised eyebrows now relaxed, a few crinkled-forehead lines hang around. And oh, the brown spots.
They have taken over, enough that the cheap minimalist makeup no longer has a fighting chance. Everywhere, almost like freckles, except bigger and splotchier and ugly as sin.
The skin-colored lipstick tube of concealer once used to hide zits of youth now masking the marks of years.
She's never been satisfied at what stares back from the mirror. Enough that she avoids it. Stays long enough to aim for non-repulsive in the head region, throws on comfortable clearance clothes and flip flops, then doesn't come back until the next day.
There was a song? poem? speech? from the year she graduated high school called "Wear Sunscreen", and one lyric read:
at photos of yourself and recall
in a way you can't grasp now...
how fabulous you really looked.
You're not as fat as you imagine.
As does realizing the number of your age is actually how old you are. She's never before felt the number. Spent most of her boys' earlier years thinking, how on earth am I old enough to have these children?
Those gorgeous, glamorous TV and movie stars she followed and admired in her prime? They're looking rough these days, y'all.
The brain's ultimate deception. Sure, time is passing, but for those couple of decades, one somehow truly believes they aren't changing at all.
Until she sees the brown spots and remembers, yes, she is getting older, and every tear and prayer and fear and worry of the last two grueling years have etched themselves permanently into her face.
I feel the number now.
I'm waiting for the white hair. With all the stress I'm under and then the equal amount I create for myself, it should probably already be there.
Then I remember that I haven't even remotely seen the hard part of parenting yet, and I'm thankful that there's something still untouched by the birthdays.
Time will continue its relentless march. The hair will turn white. The wrinkles will spread and deepen. The dark spots will multiply along this strange journey. Stuff will just ache.
But in this moment, I'm only 36. So, I'm gonna keep packing as much life into every day as I can. I'm gonna paint my toenails and jump up and down at the idea of going to see a musical and sing at the top of my lungs to the big hair band classics.
I'm gonna keep on being apparently the only mom in the world who nixes the perfectly messy ponytail, giant sunglasses, and expensive float, to jump into the pool with her kids, go all the way under, and play spider and diving sticks with them. Because, at least right now, they'll let me.
The mirror betrays, but my cup overflows.
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