As I step out of the shower, I’m taken aback by the figure looking back at me. Normally, I’m greeted by a tiny person, no taller than three feet, waving a snack in my direction while I drip dry on the cool tile floor. But today, this reflection is even more alarming. The mirror is foggy, yet my image is startlingly clear. Who is that staring back at me? I’m just three weeks shy of turning 39, and all I can think is who came up with the ridiculous notion that 39 is the new 29? It’s likely some 79-year-old man. Yes, definitely a man in his seventies.
I can distinctly recall my 29th year. Back then, my body didn’t resemble a pair of squabbling balloons after a lengthy argument. I didn’t have to reposition them just to apply deodorant. Summoning courage, I step closer to the mirror to clear the steam, and to my horror, I notice hair on my face. Why, oh why, must I pluck my own face? Sometimes I wish I were a chicken—don’t they stay bare once they’ve been plucked? I should probably look that up later, maybe jot it down on a Post-It note. Wait, I need to remember to keep Post-Its in the bathroom. Instead, I’ll write it on toilet paper with my mascara.
Okay, one, two, three, four, five chin hairs. Great! I’m likely to wake up tomorrow looking like a hermit. In sickness and in health? In good times and in bad? What about when your wife wakes up with a beard she didn’t ask for? Oh look, one of these hairs is pitch-black, which makes no sense at all—but I’ll probably forget to Google that. Might as well just pluck them all and move on. And what’s this? Grey hair? I swear my blonde locks were intact when I went to bed.
Then there are the lines on my face. I stretch it back, release, stretch it back, and release. I’m Irish, for goodness’ sake! I grew up slathering on sunscreen like it was lotion on a buttered roll. I was the most pale kid around, and here I am with wrinkles. It must be all those years of smiling. Why did I smile so much? Hah! Stop laughing, you’ll just create more lines.
Oh, and let’s take a good look at my stomach. What on earth happened? Oh right, two beautiful babies weighing 8 lbs. 6 oz. and 8 lbs. 10 oz. That explains it. They were worth every bit of it though, but what kind of swimsuit will I wear this summer? My options seem to be either one that barely covers the essentials or a dancing bear costume. Who designs these swimsuits anyway? I bet they’re all men in their 70s. They say if you feel good in it, you can wear it, but these new styles that look like permanent wedgies are the least comfortable thing imaginable. I wonder how far the equator really is from the North Pole. Oh well. Focus! I’ll need to search online for swimsuits suitable for nearly 40-year-old moms. I have a feeling the dancing bear option will pop up.
Ugh, I’m so worn out. Why am I so tired?
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Are you almost done? We want a snack and need help with a 600-piece puzzle. Oh, and we kind of overflowed the sink in the kitchen. The dog is lying in the water.”
Right.
Okay, let’s tackle this. I do love my eyes. They’ve witnessed the births of my children and all the beauty life has to offer. In 39 years, they’ve never missed a moment. Who cares if I don’t look 29? Thirty-nine is going to be fantastic! It’s bound to be filled with new adventures.
“Mommy, look! We drew a rainbow on the wall with our new markers.”
“I can see that, sweetheart. I’m looking right at it.” Ugh.