Mirror, mirror on the wall…
Wait! Holy crap! Who is that?
I stand before the full-length glass in my stretched-out beige bra and Costco underwear staring back at the reflection of someone I barely recognize. The laugh lines and creases that are inevitable with long living are deeply etched in my face.
I glance at my arms. Between the scabs created by my thin onion skin that rips when merely touching anything and the dark bruises of blood underneath, I could be mistaken as the loser in an altercation with an unfriendly cactus or the victim of careless curb mishap. My eyes scroll down to the crepey skin on my thighs. The torture of working out at the gym is like pissing in the wind. I could be spending Taco Tuesdays, Wild Wednesdays, and Fast Food Fridays with friends, savoring salty margaritas, french fries, and exercising my mouth.
I have lost the appealing look of youth—tight, fresh, glowing.
Behind me I glimpse at the 8×10 photo in the contemporary lucite frame on my husband’s nightstand. It was taken around our engagement more than 50 years ago. My dark glossy shoulder length hair was fashionably flipped. My smile conveyed a happy positive vibe. We were ready to start our life together and creating a family. The best was ahead of us.
In my humble opinion, I was cute!
That is not to be confused with pretty. I would never have been mistaken for the “fairest of them all.” Cuteness was often confused with being small (short).
When I was a kid, Dad called me his “Russian shot-putter” due to my short stature and stocky thighs. My thick almost black head of hair framed my face like a helmet. My Energizer Bunny battery and cheery disposition never wore down.
Mine was the happy childhood of a rule follower, a goody-two shoes. An easy kid, I was more apt to cry than defy.
During my teenage years, my perceived cuteness was tested as I went through the various stages of puberty. My ponytail reached to the middle of my back, and I begged Mom to let me cut it into the current fashion statement, the brush-up. In hindsight, it was ugly.
I viewed life from the fringes during college in the 1960s. Hippies advocated free love and were bold war protesters. My choice of drugs was the Beatles and the Beach Boys. I cruised along in a fog, on the sidelines of critical issues like Vietnam and the fight for civil rights. The cute kid floated.
While employed in my first “real” grown-up job, I met the love of my life, who was tall in my eyes and broad in girth. He was a warrior, who had returned from service overseas. He made me feel protected and cute!
That was then….
Over the decades I morphed from a butterfly to a caterpillar
The change began subtly. One day crow’s feet appeared at the corners of my eyes, highlighted by gray strands of hair that sprung from my temples.
To fight the inevitable, the makers of hair dye, serums, tweezers, concealers, along with manicurists, colorists, and personal trainers, all benefited.
Spanx held me in, Miracle bras held me up. But it was a losing battle.
At each annual check-up I cringed as the nurse announced my shrinking height. At full height I alleged to be 5’. That was now history.
The cute little girl had turned into the little old lady.
My friends were in the same boat—the Titanic that had hit an iceberg. We all had the same gripes, aches and pains, sleepless nights, the same failing bodies.
Inside I clung to my former self-image. I vowed to keep up the façade though my body showed wear and tear, and my energy had dwindled.
We chased our youth. We biked, hiked, played tennis and Pickleball, went to concerts, and traveled.
Recently we took a trip overseas. Seniors were sprinkled in the group of travelers that ranged from middle age upward though everyone appeared to be a decade or so younger and at least seven feet tall.
Mentally I was confident we would fit in and could keep pace demonstrating that age is just a number.
One day while standing behind the giants, trying to see and hear the tour guide, a man barely qualified for an AARP card took me by the arm guiding me through the group to the front. I smiled appreciatively. He continued to escort me over the next couple of days, so I was always in front of the group.
“Hey, thanks. It is nice to be able to see what’s happening,” I said with a smile after the second day. Without hesitation, he responded, “Aww, you remind me of my grandmother. You’re so cute.”
Stunned, under my breath I murmured a very ungrandmotherly, “f**k you!”
But to be civil, I refrained from expressing my real thoughts and responded with a snide remark, “Seriously? I could be offended.”
Okay, the “kid” was in his mid-50s. I am in my late 70s. His mother—MAYBE! But his grandmother? I couldn’t stop thinking about how I must appear to others.
Truth be told (TBT as the younger generation says),
Honesty IS reflected in that mirror on the wall.
This little old lady needs to face reality…and take “you’re so cute” anyway I can get it.
Suzi Schultz Gold is a native of San Diego, California, who has a restless and entrepreneurial spirit. She retired after exploring many careers including: marketing, education, travel, always searching for her passion. During the past few years she has found joy and a creative outlet writing “slice of life” essays. Her essays are a source of self-entertainment that she hopes others will enjoy.