Mirrors

Do you ever forget what you look like? I think I often do. I like to think my personality does not (currently) match my body and face, but the matching is neither here nor there. The thing is I am so out of touch that I forget what I look like.

Until I'm taking a yoga class and we turn to face the mirrors. And there I am completely unforgiven and accurately reflected NOT doing that pose.

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Fast forward a few weeks, we have family pictures and I opt to shop alone for my "something blue" to wear so at least I match my boys.

Upon my return from the local department store, I got ready for my fashion show with Josh showing off my favorite of my newfound treasures.

"Before you say anything you should know that this is my favorite one.....okay?" I yelled through our closed bedroom door.
"Babe, I'm sure you're beautiful" he started and then I came out strutting my stuff. 
"I like it." He said with that look on his face that I knew he'd have before I even bought the shirt. 
He got 3 points for saying something nice anyway. But there were like 25 points available....so.....
"OK fine. You think I look like an old lady?" I demanded in the tone of voice every man (rightfully) fears.
"YOU don't look like an old lady, but that shirt looks like something one of our moms would wear." He slowly thought about each word before letting it escape his lips.
"You're no fashion expert, I'm texting Ash. This is the style." I turned on my heel and stormed into the bedroom to take a picture of myself.

I texted Ash. She wasn't a fan either and the shirt is currently in my "to return" pile.

I suspect I'm an old lady on the inside. I like old lady clothes (minus velcro shoes) and I want to do water aerobics instead of Zumba and I count how much fiber I eat and I wish I owned one of those ridiculously floppy gardening hats and I want to go to bed at 9:30.

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Although the entire state is on fire, everybody's still celebrating America by blowing stuff up. (Go America! Don't let a pesky little wildfire, or 15 or a mere 18 gazillion acres burned scare you away.)

So last night when the fireworks started down the street at the end of a very long night and the unreasonable hour of 9:30pm, I walked out on the balcony in my pajamas to see the hooligans and perhaps give them a nasty stare. While secretly enjoying the show I was too responsible chicken to put on myself.

Imagine my surprise when directly across the street a crotchety old man in his pajamas and bathrobe was doing the same thing? We've lived here 6 years and I didn't even know that guy lived there...he's THAT crotchety. I suddenly saw myself as the crotchety old man across the street.

There you have it. Irrefutable evidence that I am in fact 83 on the inside and only 27 on the outside.

A cryin' shame isn't it?