The Man In The Mirror

There's a new face in the mirror, lately. The cocky young man is gone, Ms Journal, and he's taken his hair and his collagen with him. The man who watched me shave this morning has white whiskers. And the little hair he has left on his head is mostly grey. Ironically, this old guy has hair growing now where hair has no business growing - on the inside and on the outside of his ears and nose. And his eyebrows ... well, don't even get me started about the eyebrows!

It's happened, Ms J. I never thought it ever would, or could, but it's happened. I've grown old. Older. That's what we say, isn't it? He's an older man. She's an older woman. We age in stages, it seems. Children long to grow up. And they do. As adults, we grow older. That's where I am. Older. I'm an older man. Finally, we grow old. That's the final stage, isn't it? That's the last chapter. The Twilight Years. That's where Dad is. He's 85. "More yesterdays than tomorrows," he says.

It's turning out to be a bit of a difficult thing to accept, this older me. Bald head, wrinkles, saggy skin. I don't much fancy this new me. I'm not as attractive as I once was, if ever I was. Attractive, that is.

There is an upside to it, though. Things have improved in the bedroom, Ms J, if you get my drift. I feel like a real Valentino between the sheets. It's good for my ego. And Colleen smiles. A lot. 'Nuff said.

I thought of all this as I watched my facial contortions in the mirror this morning as I shaved. I scraped the last bit of white lather off my throat and swished the razor in the water in the basin. Then I looked at myself and blinked and sighed and nodded my head slightly.

Two of my friends are celebrating fiftieth birthdays this month. I'll reach that milestone myself next summer. That's what it is, Ms J. A milestone. I hope I'll see it that way, and not as a mill stone. The wisest people are the ones who can accept each year as it comes and laugh at themselves along the way. Happy are those who look forward to a long and healthy Life regardless of their age.

It was nearly seven years ago when my brother celebrated his fiftieth birthday. After dinner, he stood and addressed the small crowd of family and well-wishers.

"Well, I'm fifty years old today," he said, "and I reckon I've lived about a third of my Life ..."

What a great attitude Pat has! He's always been my idol. I'd do well to adopt that same wonderful sense of humour about aging.

Colleen is thirty-four. Yeah, I know. I'm a cradle robber, Ms J. But the girl is smitten. She's "twitterpated" like Thumper's springtime birds in the movie "Bambi." Colleen does not see an old codger when she looks at me. She sees someone kind and gentle. She sees a gentleman who opens doors for her, and who asks 'How can I help?'

Colleen doesn't care at all about my age. She loves me. She simply loves me.

And if I can continue to love myself even half as much, there may still be hope for this old older mature gentle man.

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