Polly Want a Cracker?

I am not getting any younger. That fact has been made very clear to me by the mirrors I reluctantly encounter every day. However, I am convinced that mirrors, like scales, lie. It’s in their nature. They are, by design, instruments of equivocation. It isn’t true that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, because if it were, I’d see the epitome of female pulchritude every time I caught sight of myself in a mirror. It’s not because I’m vain. It’s because every woman is 20 years old in her own mind, vibrant, hopeful, bright-eyed, wrinkleless, and able to dazzle the world with her charm, grace, and comeliness. It’s only when we catch a glimpse of the old hag in the mirror that we realize that, sadly, this is no longer the case.  That's when we start thinking a lot about inner beauty being by far the most important kind.  Unfortunately (for this discussion), the skin is not transparent. 

Of course, it’s my own fault for having a mirror on the wall.  But lately I’ve noticed a further rather unsettling phenomenon that has turned equivocation into outright distortion.  I discovered this one morning after an especially restless night, so I was in no mood for shocking revelations.  I was dutifully applying makeup to what I choose to call my maturing face, a ritual I persist in even though I’m not fooling anybody into thinking I’m younger than the calendar says or that I have glowing, smooth skin. No matter what cosmetics pushers say, we can’t rewind or otherwise reset the clock.

However, I digress. This particular morning I realized, as I gazed glumly at my reflection, that I am apparently turning into another species altogether.  Now, it’s important to note that I don’t believe in Darwin’s theory of evolution. It’s like a ship Darwin built over a century ago; ever since, proponents have been shooting it full of holes and yet they still expect the thing to float. Still, the older I get, the more convinced I become that I am indeed evolving―not into a higher form of Homo sapiens, but into a new kind of Aves vertebrata chordata animalia. I’m slowly but undeniably turning into a bird. Only not pretty.

One disturbing morning as my face scowled back at me, I reluctantly had to admit that I seem to be manifesting more and more the traits of our avian friends. I have crow’s feet, a turkey wattle, and nascent jowls and looming brows like Sam the Eagle. Then as I was drying my hair, I became aware of an excessive amount of skin dangling from my upper arms, what some would call ‘wing flaps.’ Glancing downward in direct relationship to my ever-sagging mood, I realized that I also have a dove’s belly, round and prominent, so I was compelled to carry the analogy further to note that I’ve developed what could be called the appetite of a bird--a vulture.  And now my stride resembles that of a duck, more waddle than walk. I also know that no matter how many more traits I manifest, I will never really be able to fly, which I suppose adds ‘penguin’ to my repertoire. Throw in my somewhat chunky but nevertheless disproportionate bird legs, and you get a complete picture of an example of feminine feathered flying fauna of which Dr. Moreau would be proud.


While all of the foregoing might be an exaggeration, it remains close enough to the mirror's reflection to make the future look somewhat grim.  Still, I console myself with the knowledge that, from my chicken fuzz on top to my pigeon toes, I’m at least a healthy old bird, and for that I am grateful.  And no matter what, I can take comfort in the fact that aging little old ladies―unlike the dodo―will never be extinct.