While my face leaves a small shopping list of things to be desired, the mirror is impeccable and it is a lasting tribute to the mirror craftsman who probably worked two jobs while supporting a family just to go to school to learn to make mirrors such as these thus fulfilling his deathbed-promise to his grandmother. She lived a long full life well after this promise despite her family giving her bed such a morose moniker.
When I look at myself, what do I see, aside from a missed opportunity to shelve pork products at the local butcher? I see a man, although that is arguable according to some well-written and painfully-descriptive pamphlets I had thrust upon me at the mall. I just hate having things thrust at me any time unless those things are either frozen or rent-controlled.
Yes, I am a man, but notice I didn't say all man as that is like an oceanographer declaring the ocean is all water, marine life and rock formations. I am at least 2% marine life. Guess which parts! It's quite the surprise!
I see in front of me dark baggy eyes befitting a person who has just waken after another poor night's sleep. Do I suffer from nightmares involving bogeymen and the bogeywomen who love them? Do I lead such a stressful life full of life or death or some sort of waking dead decisions? Am I just overly anxious to the point that I have gnawed all objects made of wood in the house gerbil-style? No. I do have allergies though and despite my best attempts, these allergies have begun to define me. Quite the bright allergies!
I have my shirt off and fight the temptation and male conditioning that was part of my elementary education to flex and kiss and attempt to flirt with my muscles. I don't look half-bad I think, and while that leaves me somewhere between 0 and 49% bad, I like what I see and I just know I'd be highly coveted as both a mate and a street performer if I moved to the gorilla colony I read about on line the other night after consuming too many cashews.
I am often told that I don't look my age. And I always reply "look harder; I am trying!" I do act my age and I try to feel my age although it is getting harder and harder to compare and contrast in these days of "no touching". I'll let you in on a big secret - I don't cover myself in creams or lotions or ointments and I did consider it as I just love Alfredo sauce and I hate to throw away leftovers. I guess my youthful looks are a result of genetics or genetic testing both of which I am a big fan. I have season's tickets!
In moments where I am so vain, I wish my teeth were as white as a Disney princess and that my hair wasn't receding also like a Disney princess. Don't get me wrong - I love my forehead in all its freckled and shiny and partially reflective glory. I just miss the potential to sit around drinking herbal tea and growing an Afro and all of the extracurricular activities that opened the door to. Those doors are closed now and some have been freshly painted. Even I have to applaud their choice of colours and I never applaud colour choice on principle alone. My principles are always alone.
My temples are graying. Man, I wish I had some monks to say that to! It would bring the house down or at least get a chuckle or two if the monks gathered had no sense of humour. My once proud dark-red hair is now littered with the occasional white strand who say they want to be friends but I am sure they have ulterior and sinister motives and will never pick up the cheque. My once tight curls are slowly unfurling and becoming generally loose and frizzy which would make a great, albeit slightly depressing, title for my autobiography: "Generally Loose and Frizzy: One Man's Descent From Hairiness". But it would make an excellent musical comedy or How-To book.
And what to make of my slightly golden teeth? I don't smoke or chew tobacco, I don't drink coffee or soy sauce and I have a healthy amount of enamel and enamel inspired artwork adorning the walls of my house. I have seen dentists and hygienists and even asked a girl who strangely had a shape that was strangely and attractively tooth-like - we went out on a date and I just wanted to brush her - and they all said the same things "your teeth are healthy - aren't you glad your mom stopped you from eating rocks as a baby, oh wait a second, that was me and she didn't" and "I'll trade you my watch for your mouth full of gold" and "leave me alone and let me enjoy my nougat". They are always eating nougat and never offering to share.
My legs and arms are still strong and the inevitable atrophy hasn't completely hit me yet. And to be honest I'm not that excited about that part of my future. Offer me a trophy instead and we'll talk. On good days, I feel like I have the strength of a 25 year old with the wisdom that I always heard would arrive as I got on in years but my friends always doubted would actually show up. They even had a betting pool. Resourceful and cruel, those are my friends!
My hands are not unlike those hands you've all seen before. You know the ones...right, those ones! They are weathered and calloused and slightly sun-damaged, and yet they still get up in the morning, down two shots of espresso, put on their pants one leg at a time and go to work like every other pair of hands and don't try to tell me that your hands don't do this as my hands are covering my ears right now so I can't hear you and yes it is a good question how they are doing that while I am typing this too. It is a really good question and I am the one who is here right now and I don't even know, so imagine how you must feel. I thank the power above for my two hands each and every day except for those days when I have an overwhelming desire to stand and give everyone I see a standing ovation for reasons that are not clear to me at all.
I stand in front of the mirror in my upstairs bathroom each and every morning and look at myself and wonder who is that man of mystery staring back at me before I remember he moved in last week and is always hogging the mirror. What can I say, I am a sucker for men of mystery.
I stand in front of the mirror in my upstairs bathroom each and every morning and look at myself and wonder who is that man of mystery staring back at me before I remember he moved in last week and is always hogging the mirror. What can I say, I am a sucker for men of mystery.
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