Am I My Father?

Know how you always hear the warning, “You’ll know you’re getting old when you look in the mirror and see your mother!”?? Well now, that all depends on how old your mother is – or how old she got to be before she gave up the ghost. My own mother lived until about the same age I am now, so as far as appearance is concerned, from here on out it’s virgin territory, so to speak. My mother aged quickly – no doubt raising eleven children had something to do with that. My life has been much easier than hers was, so it’s not surprising that I don’t have the requisite mother-wrinkles or the totally white hair she proudly flaunted. Vanity being all, I was determined to hold onto some semblance of youth as long as I could.

Then, this morning, tragedy struck! I looked in the mirror and saw - - - my FATHER!! What? What was that? Wait! Maybe it’s just allergies causing my eyelids to swell and hang over their sockets, blocking my vision! Let’s try some eye drops and start swilling the Claritin. There’s gotta be a cure for this – and nobody better mention my age - the cure for that is terminal! OK, calm down. This is just a temporary setback. Let’s see . . let’s try wet tea bags and Wally’s Preparation H on the eyelids. No salt for the rest of my life. In fact, stop eating right now! That way, I’m sure to eliminate salt and/or any other toxic ingredient. Drink lots of water. There! That’s the ticket. Wear sunglasses when I go out so no one will notice my bulging eyes; keep them on inside, too – so what if I can’t read the labels in Fred Meyer? In fact, try not to look directly at anyone – one-on-one eye contact is highly over-rated anyway. Breathe. Breathe again. Deep breaths. Hold on, don’t panic.

You think it’s funny? You think Old Crones don’t fret about aging because we’re so wise and self-assured and, well, generally “above all that”? Well, you can just think again! A woman is a woman is a woman. The one thing we all have in common, for sure, is a desire to be pretty. It doesn’t matter if we are a flirty four year old, a sweet sixteen, an engaging adult, or a post-menopausal personality. Every last one of us hopes to exude an appealing appearance. And it has less to do with what someone else sees in us and more about how we see ourselves. A loving husband can swear we are still beautiful and it doesn’t hold nearly as much weight in our judgment as an attractive image in the mirror. Fie on us, fickle, vain creatures! I’m certain there are some deep, analytical anthropological reasons for our foolishness and if we understood why we feel like this we could begin to appreciate how wonderful we are and how truly lovely and valuable we are intrinsically.

But today I just don’t care about that! Today I want to be pretty again. And thin. And winsome. And desirable. And yes, young.

Tomorrow I’ll be wise and strong and mature and capable and wonderful. Tomorrow I’ll understand this is just a momentary insanity; I’ll appreciate, once again, who I am and how much I’m loved by the people I love. Tomorrow I’ll be a much better person. For after all, as our heroine, Scarlett O’Hara, would say, “tomorrow is another day”.