You're walking down the street doing what you normally do -- running an errand, buying groceries -- when you stop spellbound in your tracks. You've seen something startling. It's in the store window staring back at you and it's not a mannequin.
Quick. What is it?
I know. It's a cruel riddle. If you answered "me" you got it ... and so did most everyone else reading this. I'm not clairvoyant but I bet after that initial shock you said to yourself "That can't be how I look! When did I start looking like that?!" Or "When I did start looking like my mother?"
Ah, the reality of aging. We've all experienced the reflection scenario but we seldom talk about how that makes us feel -- that it's often upsetting to look different, to look older, to cringe at what we see in the mirror.
There's the explanation you've heard a million times: Our culture values youth. Look at the ads and actors and models. It's about young unlined faces and perfectly buffed bodies.
(I'm still fuming over Faith Hill's banishment from Sunday Night Football. I loved how she belted out the opening number. And those legs. Yet she was replaced with a younger version of herself!)
We can't go back but we remember all too well -- it's etched in our brains -- what we looked and felt like 20 or 30 years ago. So when we catch the "real" us in the store window it's a shock.
I'm not one of those advice givers who says, "Just get over it." That's not realistic, it's not going to happen and it serves no purpose. But you could ask yourself a series of questions that may give you new insight and a calming perspective:
*Am I doing the best with what I have?
*If I'm able to exercise, am I? Am I doing enough? What about my diet?
*Can I find simple makeup or hair changes that would lift my spirits?
*Am I involved in a project (for work or as a volunteer) that gives me a sense of accomplishment?
When I've caught a reflection of that unwelcome stranger, here's what turns it around for me: I go to gratitude. I say to myself something like -- how fortunate I'm able to stand, my arms are able to swing, my fingers can pet my dog, my nose can smell the flowers.
By the time I've made it through all my senses and limbs, I'm humbled! I haven't morphed into a new me but my mood has changed.
I'm a big believer in saying these little mantras out loud.
They become real. And reinforce what really counts.
Earlier on Huff/Post50:
