There he was again. In the double doors at work, staring back at me. Looking tired, carrying a too much mental baggage, and at least a million miles on the odometer.
My reflection.
I pull off a smirk and a wince at the same time. Then sometimes maybe an honest to goodness smile as if to convey, we made it this far. Grey has overtaken the youthful brown. I fight back against the fading of the beard, otherwise it would be stark white and that will not do at all. I have avoided coloring the beard to an overall dark brown through-out. That way it doesn’t scream too much vanity. Keeping the salt and pepper tones matching the mop on top of my head at the very least.
I have always admired and respected men with grey highlights. I saw it as a badge of honor, portraying a history of “knowing and seeing things” on full display. Also it was seen as a sign of maturity, which I somehow dispel frequently with really bad puns and inappropriate jokes, always at the wrong time and with the wrong crowds. (Bless all of you that are still counting me as friend or part of the family)
My eyes are tired and/or droopy at times from tossing and turning during the great crusade to sleep more than 4 hours, or at least 2 hours in a row uninterrupted. My stride is still a borderline swagger, part imbalance, from whichever knee decides to take the off day. It may also be due to what we use to say when packing trucks and planes: Load Shift.
Some days I smell fresh as a summer shower, and other days like an industrial accident of heating solvents and black coffee. It’s easy to sometimes ignore the popping and creaking sounds from the framework. The constant 3,000 HZ air raid siren in my left ear helps drown it.
I remember when my medicine cabinet held only bandaids and maybe Flintstone chewables….now its a small pharmacy to alleviate, reduce, lessen or just make me not care for awhile.
Mornings are the worse. Gravity during the course of the night makes my face look like a suitcase that fell over and everything just spills out onto the ground in disarray. My hair looks like I was attacked by an electrified pitchfork and I’m getting ready to film my next scene in “One who flew over the cuckoo’s nest”. (The bath robe is a nice touch)
But as I said, I know where most of this wear and tear comes from. I see the younger generation complaining about trivial things and I just smile and look at my vast “Been There, Done That” t-shirt collection.
What was extremely important 40, 10 or even a year ago, isn’t anymore.
Looking down at my hands as I type this, I will NEVER EVER be a hand model. Maybe a spokesman for Bandaid….
It’s definitely a Monday thing. Cheers.
The Past Is A Harsh Mistress 