Well, it's finally happened!
I looked in the mirror this morning and my reflection refused to look back. Talk about rude. There was some other guy in the place where my reflection should have been, making excuses as to why my reflection could no longer appear.
This guy's beard was white and his hair, what was left of it, was almost as white as the beard; it looked like shredded wheat in a snowstorm. And he had a paunch on him that would make Sydney Greenstreet look athletic.
I wonder if this guy's been hanging around for a while and I only noticed him this morning? No matter! He's an embarrassment and I've decided not to give him satisfaction. I refuse, from here on in, to ever look in a mirror again (well, at least until next time). Let's see how he handles that!
But I am puzzled.
Where did that svelte, debonair and dashing, lean future machine go? I'm sure he was there last time I looked. I mean, really looked.
And now, this jerk in the glass is telling me I can no longer see my reflection and my reflection can no longer see me. It sounds like when I was young and a father was telling me I could no longer see his daughter. What nerve!
My wife insists the rotund guy with the beard is me, but if I should be right, and that athletic figure of a man I insist is my reflection is actually hiding in there, she says she can live with that.
That sounds good, but somehow it just doesn't sound right! That little gleam in her eye disturbs me. I remember a friend of mine some time ago telling me of a similar situation he went through with reflections.
He was his usual Joe Atlas-type self - enjoying the admiring ladies' glances of as they passed by. He said he could hear their giggles and he watched the way they hid their smiles behind their hands. He felt good that day with his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel and four gold chains around his neck, just like the young guys at the time. He supposed the ladies just couldn't help themselves when they saw a 70-year-old man with the build of a 20 year old!
He glanced into a department store window and was shocked at his reflection. He stopped dead in his tracks. Some old fuddy duddy was blocking out his true reflection, the real him.
He said he rushed home, tore off his shirt and headed for the full-length mirror. Two words described that moment: "sag explosion."
I mean, I could have told him that! But I was his friend. I don't think up until then he could have handled the truth. He probably wanted to be like me or at least look like me! Poor guy. We can't all be winners. But now, and I can hardly believe it, the same has happened to me.
This elderly, out of shape, sag explosion individual is standing in my mirror blocking my reflection. An impersonator, a culprit, a thief who has stolen and probably imprisoned the real me and is trying to push himself forward, ahead of my real reflection. There outta be a law!
I should be able to call the police and say: "Get over here immediately! Someone has kidnapped my reflection and left a sag explosion in its place." But, unfortunately, there is no such law.
So, I am left shouting at my bathroom mirror and threatening violence unless my reflection is returned.
My wife just yelled through the bathroom door that she is going shopping and will be back, in three or four weeks.
Sag explosion, indeed!
It's theft I tell you!
SENIOR LIVING VANCOUVER - April 2009
SENIOR LIVING VANCOUVER ISLAND - April 2009
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