Reflected

An inexpensive, vertically slim, beveled mirror, leveled with great care by her husband’s perfectionist hands, hugs the white closet door.  The mom-approved, streak-free surface, meticulously washed with Windex, a cotton flour sack towel and then a torn page of newspaper, was speckled within seconds by tiny fingerprints that extend halfway up the length.  She stands roughly ten feet from the mirror, positioning herself so that her reflection is framed by the cold afternoon sunlight that gleams off the prism mimicking border.  She likes the mirror.  It tells her truths that she can’t get from anyone else. 

Your former body, with smooth coke bottle curves that made his eyes smile and his mouth water like the want of a refreshing drink on a warm June afternoon, has been crushed, recycled and reborn as a thick, stout glass milk bottle, a vessel of nourishment, but not nearly as desirable to the eye or provocative to the palate. 

She cocks her head to the left and contorts her mouth with deep judgmental thought. 

No, milk jugs are definitely not sexy.  They’re functional and serve their intended purpose.  It’s just not a sexy purpose.

Contemplating a little more, the arch of a singular eyebrow and the relaxing of her mouth so she’s only gently biting the lower lip, steers her thoughts in a new direction.

But if repurposed to a vase, milk bottles are a fabulous way to display a wild, vibrant summer bouquet of snap dragons, zinnias, daisies, sunflowers, and celosia.  Sometimes a new purpose can be good.  

Perking up she thinks,

I’m kind of wild and colorful…and my body sure has found new purposes in the last few years.

But after scanning the unflattering, dark-clothed reflection in the mirror, her posture resumes its slump.

Well, I used to look and act more like a field of wild flowers, but lately I feel more like a swamp or a bog.  Ok, ok, ok, maybe that’s too self-pitying and harsh.  I think a marsh…yea a marsh…that’s more fitting.  From a distance…a great distance…I look inviting and picturesque, but as he approaches me my imperfections start to make themselves known.  My grasses and reeds look abnormally dry for such an environment.  My cattails are at their awkward pollinating state so they don’t look tight and wooly.  They look more like they’re afflicted with some unappealing, flaky skin and hair irritation…like mange…yeah, mange for cattails.  And my water no longer looks placid, reflecting the blue sky and wispy clouds, rather it’s murky and filmy in some places and fuzzy with algae in others, and it no longer looks like it’s borrowing the immaculate sky, but rather like it’s clinging tight with white knuckles to the façade of beauty. 

She narrows her eyes and then opens them wide, trying to find just the right line of clear vision to truly assess herself.

No…No!  This isn’t working for me!  What was I thinking when I put this on?!  If I went out in public to the grocery store, pushing a shopping cart through the parking lot, I’d easily be mistaken for a bag lady, not a customer.  Certainly…definitely…not a wild flower! 

She lifts her husband’s excessively worn, black, double XL t-shirt over her head, letting it carelessly fall behind her.  She then pulls down her black sweatpants; her bare feet stepping out of each puddled leg.  As she adjusts her black cotton panties and tries to corral her ample cleavage into the satiny, black bra she scans her body from unpedicured toes to long overdue for a dye job, faded auburn hair, and back down.

I mean, I’ve never been super toned and thin, but I was slim and thick in all the right places…the right places…for him.

The minutest hint of a smile almost touches the corners of her mouth, but it disappears just as quickly as it appeared.  Looking at her arms she shakes her head, raising them so they are outstretched, making her body look like a lower case “t.”

What the hell is with this? 

She puts them down and turns her body to look at them from the side.

I look like an old lady.  I have old lunch lady arms.  What is sexy about an old lunch lady?  Are they sexy?  Has anyone ever had a crush on their lunch lady?

In her best husky, flirtatious voice she quietly purrs,

Well, hello there Mrs. Monroe.  I see its mashed potatoes again.

She shakes her head at the reflection of her arms.

There’s nothing sexy about scooping mashed potatoes onto a tray and your arms are still echoing the movement as you temporarily holster your slotted spoon.  There’s just nothing sexy about mashed potatoes…or slotted spoons…or is there? 

She reassesses her arms with a glimmer of hope in her eyes, seeking for possibility in her reflection as she flexes them and extends them above her head, then down to her butt, finally sliding over to her hips, but her hope fades quickly and is replaced by a look of horror at the mere thought that such things could be sexy.

What the fuck is wrong with me?!  Have I completely lost it?

Her eyes then zone in on her stomach.

And you!  For the love of God what the hell are you?!  What has happened to you?! 

She turns and faces herself again.  She pokes at her tummy.

You used to be supple and easily kissable, but now you just look like a sad, deflated balloon.   

Without any thought to it she imitates the sound of a balloon rapidly losing air…

Bbbbbbbbbbbpppppppppffffffffttttttttt

…as she pinches the sadness and then swiftly releases it, leaving a small, red blotch in place of her fingers.  She redirects her hands to her breasts.  Trying in vain to cup them with her small hands, she pushes down on the overflow of pale flesh that has escaped her bra.

Go in!  Get in there! 

She looks down at her breasts and then at their reflection.  She puts her weight on her left hip.

Oh my God!  Do you know what I look like?  I look like a poorly drawn caricature of a porn star.  No, no…a porn star wanna be…a porn poser…even better, how it rolls off the ton…what the hell…where am I going with this?  Priorities! 

She grabs them once more and then releases both, extending her arms backwards, her fingers unhooking the bra clasp.  She gives no thought, nor sensuality, to slipping her arms through the straps and allowing the bra to fall to the floor; after all, she’s performed this monotonous ritual a countless number of times in her life, and it’s second nature, task-like feel, compounded by her middle-aged, momified body imperfections, have suppressed the sexy, strip tease she once made of it.  She cups her naked breasts and then slightly raises them.

Before kids.

She raises them just a tad more.

Before thirty.

And again, adding a bit more support and height to them.

How I want them to look when lying on my back. 

She lowers her breasts to their shameful resting place, releasing each one from her clasp, and raising her arms and hands above her head, turning her body so she can see it from all angles.  She takes hold of the clip in her hair, pinching the top so it frees her shoulder length locks.  She fluffs her hair with her fingertips, and then with the side of her left hand, draws an imaginary line just beneath her left breast.

If I can just grow my hair so it’s a foot longer than it is right now, my naked breasts will be completely covered.  And if I can save enough money, or find a way for insurance to cover surgery, or win the lottery, and I can get past the fear that I’ll die a selfish death on the surgical table, leaving my husband a widow and my children motherless, I can have my breasts done and they will look like this.

Grabbing her breasts and pushing them up to her desired position, she cocks her head to the right, raising her chin and studying the desired look reflected before her.  She continues her self-degrading dance, turning and angling her body so she can give great attention to her back, her butt, her thighs, and finally her face.  She just stares at herself, right in the eyes, staring at the woman before her, comparing her to the teenaged body she keeps high on a pedestal. 

She hates the mirror.  It reflects a person she’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable with.  Away from her reflection she feels less vulnerable and under less scrutiny.  The mirror reflects the unease, the fears, the truths, the half-truths, and the lies, every god damn last one of them, and she abhors its honesty and its x-ray vision.  She sighs, hooking her fingers in the elastic of her black cotton panties, as she turns to the door of her ensuite bathroom, pulling the soft fabric down her legs, leaving them on the carpet with the other articles of clothing she shed during her unintentional strip tease.  She turns back to place her wedding band on the dresser when her eyes catch sight of him, her breathing catches and her body stills from the surprise.

Holy Fuck!  Cover up your body!  Don’t let him see this! 

She wants to grab the t-shirt from the floor, but she doesn’t want him to see her bend down to get it.  And she wants to scurry to the hook on the other side of the bathroom door for her floor length robe, but she doesn’t want him to see anything jiggle, so she just stays frozen in her spot, her face and body heating to eight shades of pink and red. 

He smiles at his wife, admiring her beauty, and the body that gave him three beautiful, healthy children, thinking about how sexy she is and about all the things he’d like to do to her after the kids go to bed; well before then too, but they shouldn’t be awake for what he wants to do to her.  He walks towards her and gently rubs his hands down her arms to her hips, finally resting them on her butt, where he playfully squeezes it.  He smiles down at her kissing her neck, her chin, her lips.  Through a huge smile he tells her, “I love you” and it’s an even more honest declaration than any mirror or reflection could ever give her.  Grabbing her face in both his hands, he kisses her hard one last time.  He begins to exit the room, knowing that his wife needs this time to herself to decompress from the daily life of a stay-at-home wife and mother, but he can’t help but turn around one last time, his face still wearing a huge grin, to admire the woman he still can’t believe chose to make a life with him.

Of all people…She chose me.    

E.A. O'Connell