I scrutinized my look in the mirror. Closely, as I tried to re-create the facial expression at the moment when that woman asked me my age.
Though I’d slept on the sensation (the conversation occurred the previous evening), I still fully recalled the internal commotion incited by the hissy-whispered request.
My mirror image couldn’t lie. My facial muscles were tight…I may have glowered. My bed head hair reflected the stormy, whipped-up feelings.
Incredulous. Aghast, off-guard. With that lo-o-ong beat of pause, because there was no air in my lungs. She slid the query into our chat with surgical precision. We’d just met!
Aww-w, we were getting on so well…
I relented to share my number when she told me her age, which was five years more than mine.
She may have lied. She had on flawlessly applied false eyelashes, after all.
And she was married to an attorney. She had her agenda. She had her information. She had her exit planned.
Age before beauty, some say. Others say beauty before age. I remain mum most of the time.
Perhaps I’m a little sensitive (“ya think?” asks the mirror). I’m not yet ready to boast about all the living I’ve done. Not even after attending my high school reunion with pleasant results. Those people knew…and knew me when. We bustled with respect and pride. Smiles masked the furrowed brows and double chins.
But I digress…
That hussy embodied the belligerence of menopause. Older people flaunt politically correct.
To the left is what my mirror wants me to reflect. Perhaps I’ll get there soon.
Nice picture, but I beseech: “Mirror, mirror on the wall…”
and I repeat: https://pjcolandoblog.com/blonde/
On what do you reflect, Boomer Chicka or Chum?