Who Took the Real Me?

Well, it’s finally happened. I got up one morning and looked in the mirror. The reflection staring back at me was distorted and blurry. Twenty minutes later, after looking all over the house—including inside the fridge—I discovered my glasses atop my head. Once I put them on, the images cleared. But what I saw wasn’t the “me” I expected. Are all those hairs gray, I asked myself. I thought some of them were blonde. Nope. Gray. When did those wrinkles shooting away from my eyes like sunbeams drawn on a cartoon decide to stay instead of disappearing when I stop smiling, I wanted to know. Where are my lips? My full, pouty lips? Gone. Instead, there are thin slats of tissue. And what are those things sliding off the sides of my face? Are those jowls? E-gad! I’m starting to look like a St. Bernard, I realized with growing dismay. Whoa. Look at the blob hangin’ off your chin, girl, I told myself. You could pack enough clothes for a weekend getaway in that flap of loose skin. I squinted, moved closer to the glass. Holy cow, I breathed in abject horror. Is that a nose hair? Two?!

I want to know why none of my friends told me these things were happening to me. A couple of them have had Lasix (Oops. That’s a diuretic. Sorry.) Lasik eye treatments. Didn’t they notice my face was morphing into someone else’s? Couldn’t they see the taut, firm flesh drooping like my grandmother’s stockings? Obviously whichever physicians did their surgeries need to be sued. My friends’ visions are still faulty.

And while I’m on the subject, clothing manufacturers need to go back to styling clothes the way they used to be. Something is wrong with the way material is nipped and tucked these days. Things don’t fit the way they did a couple years ago. It has to be the clothes. No way have my boobs and stomach become one entity. I’m going to have to start buying maternity tops. 

That reminds me. I need to schedule an appointment to see my doctor. I nearly pulled my shoulder out of joint the other day. All I did was wave. That floppy bat-wing thing looping off the underside of my arm practically wrenched my shoulder out of socket. I’m sure the flap draping down is bicep muscle that’s become detached. I probably need surgery.

Have you seen the commercial for the “Booty” panties? There’s padding to make one’s derriere appear perkier. Excuse me? I already have a perky butt, thank you very much. I turned to look at the behind side of me, knowing I totally own “perky”. My heart sank. I need a forklift to haul that saggin’ booty off the backs of my thighs, I realized. If I had gray skin—to match all those hairs I thought were blonde—I’d think I was looking at an elephant’s legs.

I’m telling you, there’s something seriously wrong going on. Who I see in the mirror isn’t “me”. It’s someone much older than who I am. I purse my fish-lips together as I think of a solution. I know. I’ll go buy a new mirror. I’ve had this one a while. The reflective surface has obviously melted in the Gulf Coast heat and humidity. Hang on a minute while I get dressed, I tell the woman in the shiny glass. No, don’t be afraid. That’s not gunfire. Just my knees popping. Can’t seem to take a step these days without sounding like a Fourth of July celebration. I notice her nodding. You, too, I ask. I see her sigh. Girl, I feel your pain, I tell her.

It’s a good thing God still recognizes me. He knew me even before I was born. He knows every hair on my head, gray and red alike. He knows the number of days I’ll be on this earth before I join Him in Heaven. I just wish He’d tell me where my arthritis cream is. I can’t find it. No, that’s toothpaste. . . .

Until next time, may you be filled with God’s tender mercies. 

Jann (Sherry’s sister)