Aging in a Hotel Room Mirror

I’m a traveler, full of wanderlust and accumulated mileage. When my husband and I began journeying together in our twenties, it was Motel 6 or anything cheaper. Our game has stepped up a bit, but nothing fancy. I don’t enjoy tipping everyone I say hello to, the way the fancier places have it. A bell person can leave me to take my own overnight bag up the elevator. I do enjoy the service, but I never have enough cash.

We belong to the rewards programs for our tier. The Marriotts, the Hiltons—that ilk. The thing they all have that I don’t—from the Super 8 to the Ritz Carlton—is a full length mirror. For as long as I remember, I’ve avoided taking in the whole package. Unless it’s a mirror in a restaurant behind my meal companion, which proves difficult to resist, but is mercifully only a headshot.

Why should I stare at my own harsh reality? Over the span of the rising and falling of 100s of pounds, I’ve never stood in a mirror and thought, ooh, perfect. Instead, I’ve turned away and lived my life despite the flaws.

At home, I have one that shows the top half of me, and another that gives me the bottom. It’s always something—I’m fat, my hair looks awful—too curly and/or balding, my makeup is askew, etc. etc. etc. All those things might be very true but they are entirely irrelevant to the way I’ve chosen to live my life. I hope I appear pretty and well put together, but I never see it, so I avoid the whole topic.

Except in that door of a hotel room closet or bathroom. Every lump and wrinkle, all the falling boobs and saggy ass. What I used to see was hope for improvement, but that is now a plunging age spiral. A few years back, when I was losing weight it was softer, things were awful but getting better. That was before the brick wall of time smacked me in the face. Now my reflection is a wake-up call.

But is it even worth the concern? I know for a fact that everyone who loves me doesn’t mind if my mascara runs or isn’t on at all. Mostly. I hope so anyway.

My father thought the way a woman looked was the most interesting thing about her. And he never liked the way I did. My roundness, real or imagined, too much a reflection of his own. My mother was either too passive to argue or agreed. Or maybe that was just my interpretation of their endless stream of suggestions as to how I could improve.

“She’s so pretty,” my father would say. “And it all gets hidden in the fat. It’s gross.”

My mother gave her helpless shrug. She wasn’t interested in makeup no matter how hard she tried to please my father.

Once, he sent my sister and I out shopping with one of his actress “friends.” She taught me how to apply makeup and hide fat, and highlighted that my mother was incapable of offering either of those opportunities.

To be fair, it was a different time. And they weren’t wrong. My package, and the way I perceived it, did effect my life. I bought a Columbia Records worth of never ending subscriptions to make up kits. I was heavy handed with the eye shadow, but I figured it out.

As an adult, I recognize the better things about my mother, her brains and her loyal, unconditional doggedness. I’m more grateful for those examples than the technique for applying lip liner, which I have never used, even when I was still trying. Plus, love is a lot easier and more rewarding to keep up.

Which brings me back to the goddamned mirror last week, before we set out on our walking tour of Portugal at the Hilton Canopy in London. I caught my reflection.

There is no amount of even Kate level denial that will hide that my youthful years are behind me. In many ways, I’ve taken out my rage on my body. I have eaten, smoked and drank my way to 52. It’s in the jiggle of my belly and the expanding expanse of my neck. 

On the other hand, I’ve helped my body too. I yoga. I meditate. I walk the rambling and well worn paths of my beloved Western Massachusetts woods (I call it hiking, but the actual hikers in my life, laugh). I eat as well as I can. Between the chocolate ice cream binges, that is.

I stopped smoking cigarettes finally. I mean I think I’ve become a non smoker in the sense that as we took our seats outside a London pub, instead of asking the next table over if I could bum one, I scrunched up my nose and we looked for a less smoking friendly place. I think I’ve finally arrived.

After my husband left to meet buddies from his London office, I made myself take a real look. I clocked the swinging of my upper arms and the wrinkles forming in all the corners, but as meditation has taught me, there is another mindset. Acknowledge all of it, but choose what to pay attention to. And maybe I could find something I like?

What I am really facing is the disappointment of never looking like “I should.” And who’s keeping score besides me? What should I look like? There’s a reason beautifully famous women are famous. They are rare, and maintenance is equivalent to a salmon swimming upstream to die. No one can escape that current. 

Given that, I looked again. My eyes are still pretty. At my birthday party, in a bathing suit I never would have worn publicly, my friend said I had the skin of a baby. So, a decent outer shell still. My hands don’t have age spots. Yet. I have a nice rack and my ass is enormous, but can still execute a perfect squat.

When age felled my mother and she began to lose her sense of self, a kind person told me to appreciate today. It wasn’t going to get better, and I’d want to remember each moment. Which I did, and it proved a gift.

There is no manner of self loathing, no diet or regimen heavy enough that will move my weight or my wrinkles in either direction. I have lost enough good sleep to this. Instead, I am doing my best and hope not to die.

So as I head off again, this time to spend the week in Denver with cousins, I’m going with that. I won’t remember how much I weighed when I got here, or how much I’ll gain on the way out. But I will remember their three gorgeous kids, seeing Sting at Red Rocks, and the laughter and good feeling that I have earned as the years keep barreling along.

In terms of success, I’m claiming the win!