There's this thing that's been weighing on me. This awaarmeness of my age....of aging. This awareness that I'm no longer young. No longer attractive. I can walk into stores, down the street, around...and never wonder if someone is looking at me, noticing me. Because I know they're not. I blend into the background of normalcy. A frumpy older woman running errands.
I remember when the simplest task - pumping gas, stopping for coffee...even driving down the road held an element of excitement because you never knew if someone might notice you, SEE you, be drawn to you.
That's what I always longed for - that sense of being seen, known in a glance. For someone to realize realize that I was unlike other girls. I was something special. Something unique.
I wanted to be someone's muse.
But muses don't come in 46 year old, 200 pound bodies. They just don't They come in young, willowy, haunting sillouhettes. Not clodhoppy, aching feet & knees.
I am past that stage. That stage of being noticed. I'm a wife and a mother now. A happy wife & mother. It would no longer be appropriate to be noticed anyway. But, that's not what I mourn as much as I mourn who I used to be. Energetic, full of hope & passion.
I'm still there though. I'm still that whimsical, passionate soul. I've become a bit buried though - not only under layers of fat and drying skin. But, also a more purposeful burying. I've pushed her down, that nymph/ fairy wanna be. I've pushed her down so that I'm not sure if any part of her still survives.
But then she surfaces every now and then. In a dream. While I'm reading a book or watching a movie that hits those old touch points. She's still there. I remember. I feel myself again. And, then I look in the mirror & remember that my reflection does not reflect the inner me - that girl.