In spirit, I feel healthy. I cannot be more thankful.
But now, mirrors have become to me the worst invention. Almost outplacing gunpowder. Every time I look in a mirror, I don’t like what I see. The ravages of time have made the wrinkles around my eyes more pronounced. The meagre amount of hair remaining is spindly, hardly disguising the oncoming baldness. These days, I cannot decide on whether or not a haircut makes my head look better or worse. Sometimes, I wonder if a brush cut would be beneficial.
It’s not just my physical looks that are causing me concern. As the clock ticks, I worry if I will ever see my novel published traditionally. I have two self-published books but I still feel uneasy about calling myself a legitimate writer. I just finished writing a YA novel which I think is good; certainly has potential. I am going to try to get it published but, as time passes, I keep wondering if someone out there with the exact same idea will beat me to the gate. I’m getting paranoid. To think that I might be plagiarizing without really knowing it. Poe’s doppelganger rears its ugly head.
Or perhaps, when I do get published, I will reread this blog and chuckle and whisper, I made it.
I visited my parents this past weekend and they remind me of my own mortality. They hobble around, both with bad hips. They get tired easily.
There is an episode in Roseanne when Roseanne asks her mother how she feels and her mother says, I’m 63. I feel like a 63-year-old. When Roseanne indicates she does not like this response, her mother asks her why and Roseanne says, Because you keep getting older and you drag me down with you.
When I first saw this episode, I was 30. Now, I’m 51.
But something tells me it’s just not mirrors and my parents that are reminding me I’m being dragged down, too.