I was carrying on a snarky conversation, cracking wise:
“Wow, bub – that face could hold a 3-day rain.” The usual early-AM smart remarks. It was about there when I noticed the guy wasn’t firing back, but aping my gestures. I squinted. Mirror.
Aw, NAW, man. That can’t be–
Starboard-side hair matted and flat. Whiskers. Breath that makes the dog wince. Scars. A lot of ’em. Custom-made belly button.
Yeah, I’m afraid that’s me, right there. The, ah, ugly truth stares back at me every morning from my mirror. As Richard Rohr once wrote, “Before the truth sets you free it tends to make you miserable.”
Miserable is a choice I refuse to make. I’m up, I’m alive, it’s aNOTHer day God’s gifted me with, I’m walking and talking and singing and— okay, maybe I’ll knock off the singing so early.
Making myself presentable to the outside world can be a daunting mission. So it takes awhile to transform the just-got-up me into a visage appropriate for public consumption. If wrinkles must be written on my brow, let them not be written on my heart. My spirit should never grow old.
Everybody is a main character to someone. Let me work to be one today.
And, hey-y-y. You in the mirror? I’ll see you tomorrow mornin’.
© D. Dean Boone, October 2016