I can be fully present one moment, content with who and where I am, then, upon seeing my reflection, without even registering what I’ve seen on any conscious level, I become foul and discontented.
Next thing I know, one daughter or other comes into the room, stands too close to me, or asks me an innocent question, or– I really hate this– silently watches me get dressed, and next thing I know I’m snarling and snapping like a dog that doesn’t get enough exercise or attention.
“Stop looking at me,” I want to shout, but don’t. “Can’t a woman get dressed in peace?”
I’m not comfortable with them seeing my middle-aged womanliness. My sagging bits. My loose belly skin. What I really don’t want them picking up, is the message that any of this less-than perfect physical stuff should be a source of shame and self loathing.
Some role model I am. Oozing with irritable unease at being watched. By being treated as lovable and acceptable when I don’t feel remotely so.
It’s hard pin down the exact source of unease. I don’t always recognize the exact moment it happens. Then I remember, that moment just minutes before, when I saw myself in the mirror, or store or car window. It could have been the mere sight of my dreary hair, the lines around my mouth or, my newest obsession, stomach paunch that no amount of sucking in can make go away.
To be fair, it’s not always triggered by appearance. I can bring this shift on with a negative thought process as well. You may know the drill.