The Field Marshal Returned

I’ve tried to avoid mirrors since I retired because, well, I can. Why should I risk depression over gray hair and wrinkles and leopard-like hands? But I had to dress decently this week (no sweatshirt and distressed shorts), and I realized I couldn’t tell what I looked like. I guess over time, I had rid myself of any reflective surface, so I really didn’t know. That wouldn’t do this week, so I bought a full-length mirror. Big mistake.

I had my visiting son attach it to the wall (thank you) and tested it out, but the mirror didn’t work because I wasn’t the reflected image. Someone else stood before me, an old woman who was short, gray-haired, pudgy, with unwanted, but earned wrinkles. How can that be? And, who was she?

I had suspected some other person was living in my house for the past few years, and whoever it was did things to annoy me, such as altering my clothes so they don’t fit, eating my ice cream and other sweets (never devouring the vegetables), and maxing the television volume level so my kids ask me if I’m deaf (yes) as soon as they enter my house. She has tightened all the jar lids so that I cannot open them without help and she constantly hides things, making me crazy as I try to find them, when I know exactly where I last placed them. She has lowered some of my chairs and of course, the toilet, making it exceedingly difficult to return to a standing position. What’s up with that?

My unwanted guest was my beloved Field Marshal mother who stood in front of my new mirror replacing my lovely, youthful image with hers. I’d like to break the mirror, but don’t want the seven years of bad luck.

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