I patted my armpit rash, of an unknown cause, with a folded piece of toilet paper wet with isopropyl alcohol. I pressed my body up close to the mirror, so I could see if any of the pink sores had shrunk overnight. I saw the same constellation of spots, the shape of a kidney bean, and in the corner wedged beside my armpit I saw a glimpse of my right side face. At the corner of my right nostril a dim worn line traces down to the corner of my mouth. For a drawn out second I met a stranger. I fixed the unfamiliar sight of myself by smiling. It’s a smile line. But I glimpsed at a woman I will become, older. Stern, unless smiling, like my Dad. I have ducked away lately from examining my face; I wash my skin before bed in the dark. Not out of judgment, but out of determination to separate value from my appearance. I have to do this, if I plan to live long.
I have read personal accounts of woman who have not seen themselves age, until they are startled by themselves in a photo, or on one clear morning, all at once. I don’t see how this is possible, as we brush and wash and comb ourselves daily in front of mirrors. But I do understand. I see the same version of myself, and I expect the same tomorrow, and so that is what I see. I have never lived in a house without a mirror bolted above the sink. I have never lived by rare glimpses of myself and seen my changes, like the startle and settle at the sight of an old friend.
