I do know what I look like, I really do. Every couple of days I force myself to take a look at the old man in the mirror. He’s craggy and saggy, scarred and marred. His eyes are clear and still blue, but everything else about his looks is pretty disastrous. Still… horrible as the decay has been, I think he’s still recognizable as the young man he once was.

Today my sister sent me a recent photo of my ex. We split over 50 years ago and it’s been almost that long since I last saw her. I would, of course, expect that time has had its evil way with her as it does with all of us. She would no longer be the trim, pretty, fit brunette that she had been. I understood that. But the image of her I saw today was shocking. 

It wasn’t just that she was aged, though she was. Nor was it that she was rather ugly, though she certainly was. She looked not just like an older person, she looked like a different person. Not only did she not look like her young self in any way, she looked like an entirely different sort of person--a person who was hard and cold. And legendarily unattractive. 

I told my sister--and I meant it--that if I’d been shown that picture without the person having been identified, if I’d been told that this was someone I knew years ago…I would never have guessed it was her. I would have guessed every other white female I’d ever met in this world before guessing it was my ex. It was unbelievable.

        At least it’s a boost to my ego. Next time I see that ancient troll in the mirror, I expect I’ll think my decline, bad as it is, to also be not unlike that of the aged Cary Grant. An exaggeration, yes, but in the right direction.