I need to do some mirror desensitization. At (nearly) 50 I should know what I look like now and be at peace with that. I should accept the image that has always reflected back to me and love it for what it is. But I’m not there yet. I’m holding out hope for being a cute, wrinkly old grandmother, shrunken and spikey. Wrinkles slouching over where the fat puffiness used to be. Feverish weepy eyes that can make young men offer to do all kinds of things for me. Lip puckered creases from too much kissing (why not?) Inspiration for portrait painters who can show a soul from the outside in. A face etched with character: edgy at least. Maybe then I can look in the mirror and tell myself “there. You grew into your looks at last.” I’m waiting. Waiting. Still here.
(As much as I hate looking in mirrors I do like the way this one turned out in my bathroom: took a print from Tuesday Mornings and changed it out for a mirror. The only problem is related to the sloped ceilings in the bathroom: you have to be my height or shorter to align with it OK. Other favorite things in the photo: the toile window shade I made; my red, red wall which was the first thing I did to my home; my painted iron birdie necklace rack; the second story flower box at the window, and; my neighbors accross the road who assure me they cannot see into my bathroom with the shade drawn. God I hope not. A benefit of being single: finding my own style.)