...Who Is This Woman In The Mirror...a short story...

Who Is This Woman In The Mirror?

A Short Story By

Monica L. Sharpe

Six months ago, I forced myself to look into the mirror, focusing on the reflection of the precocious fifty-seven year old woman standing before it. I barely recognized her thin forced smile, heavy eyelids, and her hair streaked more with gray than her sassy dark auburn. They say you get the face you’ve earned by the time you’re fifty—all those regretful and angry expressions, hidden behind the artistry of makeup. It’s amazing how a little mascara and shadow masks the pain and hurt, while a dab of rosy pink blush camouflages the naked truth in a montage of endless miles.

I’ve been running away all my life. When I was six years old, I ran to a vacant lot—the only place I could be all by myself and contemplate my life as free as a butterfly. At seventeen, for no apparent reason I left home and hitchhiked as far as my thumb took me and became who I wanted to be. I tried to be my own person and thought it was deadly to be in the constraints which society held for teenage girls in the late 60’s. At fifty-four, I ran from another unfulfilled marriage and never looked back. Its no wonder all the term papers I wrote in college, the ones that remain tucked within my journals are those written about runaways. I gaze at this stranger before me, I look back and think; I’ll never be that way again.

It’s only been recently I came to know what I’m missing in my life and what I crave to have back. I want a true sense of balance that begins in my heart, an amalgamation of life experiences. This is what’s driving me to my future. I strive not to feel week and inferior and I selfishly desire more independence. I no longer want to keep up with the Jones’s who are keeping up with the Smith’s. I want a simple life with minimal complications.

I wake each day with self-determination, thirsting to make my way without needing or calling for help. I now struggle for autonomy and the rebirth of will. Every decade I live offered new leaps of faith and new challenges and as I near the threshold to the other side, always I strived to be me. With hard work and a strong will, I’ve conquered the past. Well, I thought I did, until I saw his smile again.

For the past six years, I have flown all over the country conducting seminars, attending retreats and lectures given by women for the aging female baby boomer generation. The majority of the women who attended were no longer satisfied with their careers, women who have been in long relationships who felt unappreciated and useless. Others were experiencing the empty nest blues, women who were seeking a higher calling and those who felt sexually undesirable.

I was one of those women. I fell into all of those categories at one degree or another, so did the majority of women who attended. We all needed something hotly cold to bite our souls while we longed for a new sense of being. Not only did we feel compelled to make a difference and prove we are still in some way independent of those who depended on us; we all secretly wanted to experience that little glimpse of youth that was rapidly slipping through our fingers.

My connecting flight to New York was delayed due to an ice storm in the Chicago area. An already exhausted airline attendant tried to joyfully announce the delay would be another six to seven hours, and that the airlines regretted the inconvenience. The ergonomics of the airport accommodations were already uncomfortable as I patiently sat for nearly three hours. Rather than sit here any longer listening to the rash of complaints from other passengers and tired fussy children, I thought about getting a room for the night at a nearby hotel and catch another flight early in the morning. If it wasn’t for the speech I was scheduled to give at a prestigious women’s club in New York tomorrow night, I might have spent another day or two basking in the Phoenix sun. Presently, I had no one to answer to and my independence allowed me to make that choice.

I collected my coat and briefcase and wearily shuffled to the airport lounge to make up my mind over a drink or two. The soft jazz playing was soothing and I had my pick of seating options. I chose a quiet table towards the back of the room overlooking the runway, hoping to review the speech I was going to give tomorrow night. I had the uncomfortable feeling I was being watched from the time I sat down. I looked up and over to my left, an attractive silver haired man was sitting at the end of the bar. He sat alone looking in my direction, nursing what was left of a mixed drink. His generous smile was familiar when he tipped his glass and affirmed my glance with a nod. I returned the smiled and went back to reviewing my notes. Occasionally I glanced his way, only to meet his equally puzzling expression. I was curiously preoccupied why he seemed so familiar, it was becoming impossible to concentrate on the speech I was putting the polishing touches on.

Unexpectedly, it was as if lightening struck, he crossed my mind. I hadn’t thought about him for years. I knew that smile. I would never forget it. That’s what gave him away. “Could it be?” I whispered. What are the chances we would meet in an airport more than thirty years later? Slim to none. But, it was him…I knew that smile…I looked into those soft soulful eyes too many times not to forget…I felt the pangs of my youth suddenly seize me in a flash of ecstasy when I reminisced about the boy I loved so long ago.

In a dam bursting instant, the past flooded my mind consuming every ounce of sanity I had left. Two things resonated in the back of my mind. Why didn’t I take the time to touch up my roots and the other was the little voice screaming, “Run, Theresa, run!” I mourned our bitter breakup for years and I often wondered what life would have been like if we married. I was infatuated—no, I was borderline obsessed with his memory and when the love affair ended, the “what ifs” always teetered on the edge of my mind. I imagined our life together and what our children would look like, if we had any. I wondered if he would make love to me, long after my hair turned gray and my breasts lost their firmness. I dreamt for the carefree days we shared and falling asleep in his arms for the rest of my life.

For more years than I care to admit, I rushed forward in a straight line, pushing onward never veering away from the path of rules set by other people—those rules against which I have measured myself. I never took the time to decipher where I was going—I just went without question. I never thought once to celebrate myself not even once—not after the birth of my children, not after nurturing them or helping shape their young lives. It occurred to me that I was always eager to applaud their accomplishments and yet I hardly noticed my own. I stood behind them and guided them as they matured into independent and responsible adults, taking pleasure in a job well done.

I did not take the time to grieve even after the hundreds of times I consoled others through loss or hard times. I did what was expected of a daughter, when my father passed away and six short months later, my father-in-law passed. I suppressed my grief to take care of two women, who like myself, never stood on their own two feet. More than thirty years have lapsed, I am now learning to grieve. I am the only woman I need to take care of.

I’ve taken that leap into uncertainty one too many times. The first monumental leap of my adult life was when I said, I do. I was afraid of indecision. I worried if this relationship would really last “till death do us part,” or would we tire of each other and move on separately in different directions. There were many times I leaped and fell flat on my face…starting one business then losing another. Going back to college in my thirties only to determine my career choice wasn’t what I wanted. I convinced myself, I will never know until I tried. I knew I didn’t want to reach retirement age with any more regrets and what ifs. In the words of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, “There is no past we can bring back by longing for it. There is only an eternal now that builds and creates out of the past something new and better.” I have taken that quote to heart, focusing on the here and now.

I realized risks are attached to everything, even if I was afraid or never took that initial leap; they are lurking around the corner. I have learned that I will never be free to do as I please if I stayed with the familiar. I lived in an era where women emerged as freethinking individuals. We broke the mold of our mothers. We made love not war, we protested, burned our bras, and went full circle in our lives to an age we need to find our true selves once again. I struggled to take two steps forward. I cannot allow myself to fall behind even one small step over a man, who as a boy, left me behind dazed and confused while he ran as fast as the wind in the opposite direction.

I am now weakened by the image of his boyish smile and the fond memories. I know myself too well. With one beat of my heart, I would let myself fall for him again. I could easily relinquish my heart for an old familiar feeling, the desire of youthful passion, and the need to feel alive again. I spoke to numerous women how a fleeting moment of passion could change their life’s harmony, and how they should think before they dove head first into a situation. Now, what I am thinking. Look at what I’m lusting for. My fellow supporters would be so disappointed and give me the finger motion of shame.

“Look at you…is it really you?” he said. I was lost in a moment. I was taken aback when I heard his voice, “It is you.” I did not notice him leisurely make his way to my table. “May I sit with you?” I knew his voice. My memory didn’t falter. I motioned for him to join me. There was no need for introductions. We sat across from one another and stared into each other’s faces like we did at our favorite restaurant when we shared one milk shake with two straws. “Life sure has been good to you Theresa. You’re as beautiful as I remembered.” he said. I tried to hide my excitement behind the shy bashful smile he used to kid me about. “Wes, you look wonderful,” he took my hands in his. “The years have also been good to you.”

We pushed through the initial awkwardness of seeing one another. We remembered some old chemistry that made us gel, and a whole lot of hopeful projections about who we thought each other was to the other. We talked about our past, a time when there was a brief us. A time we were enveloped in the moment, oblivious to outside interference and scared of ourselves. His lips expressed words with smiles that stretched across his broad face ending in soft corners that I wanted to kiss for hours that night.

When the conversation ran its course and drifted back to our current lives, I inquired why he was in Arizona. Wes told me he was waiting for his wife’s connecting flight to arrive from Chicago. When he found out it would be delayed for several more hours he stopped to get a drink before driving back home to Sedona. Once expressed, that thought of ending the night unfulfilled, nearly brought a young wide-eyed plea to my now aging face. His own countenance was dropping from what was moments ago a laughing grin to the same sad resolve that tonight we would not have more than what we had already tasted of each other. We exchanged goodbye kisses and well wishes. My lost love was content and fulfilled with his life.

I watched from my lonely table for two, as his easy gait strolled through the glass doors, out of my life again. It was tempting to follow at a safe distance, and perhaps suggest we share a bite to eat. Instead, I stayed behind and waited till I knew he would safely be on his way. I hailed a cab to a nearby hotel and settled in for the evening.

I didn’t feel the wave of depression I expected. Instead of waking in a fetal ball of despair, I awoke and saw all the wondrous things my life had become, all the beautiful souls that shared a step with me on the mortal journey of this life, and I was amazed by it all. All the beauty, all the warm and lasting memories, never understanding that this wishful full life that I wanted is what I have been living all along, and sharing all the way. The complete happiness that seemed to elude me was mine all along. I dreamt of experiences that didn’t happen to me, yet it was my life and I did live it. I am not a better person, nor am I worse. I’m only different. I only needed to be awakened to know it.

I look at my reflection and know that certain life experiences left a mark on me. I see deep lines of hopeful projections, some fulfilled, and others not obtainable. I smiled at the familiar woman looking back at me. I no longer feel isolated in my own selfish thoughts, because many wonderful women have openly shared that I’m not swimming alone in a haze of ambiguity. Like women before me and around me—we have, and are being seasoned by life’s experiences.