“Tomorrow,” she thought to herself. “Tomorrow is a new day.” She turned and viewed her backside in the mirror again. Definitely her best side. Turning forward again, she lifted her breasts where a woman twenty-five years her junior would have them. Too big, too saggy.
Her eyes lifted to her face, the creases of time creeping slowly deeper. She tilted her head, first one way then the other. Neither way really looked that attractive. Make-up made her look older. Going natural made her look heavier. There were more and more strands of silver in her hair these days. It wasn’t as thick and luscious as it had been.
Her tummy was a mom-tummy. Three children took their toll. And she had a love of potatoes and bread and sweets too. That didn’t help, she knew.
She met her own eyes again. Haunted and sad. They didn’t look like the her she saw in her mind. A tear trickled down her cheek. Watching it, her heart sank. It clung to her thick chin for a moment before releasing its hold and dropping to her aging breast.
No. There was no way anyone would want her. She saw what men (and even women) wanted. They wanted toned and tanned. Strong and firm. They wanted perky and small. It didn’t matter that she was intelligent or funny. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t lazy or was kind. They didn’t want stretch marks and chubby cheeks. They didn’t want unwanted hair or morning breath.
It didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. She hung her head and reaching for her robe, regretted once again her weakness and poor decisions. Another night alone. Another long fucking night alone.
The woman in the mirror always told the truth, even when she tried to lie to herself while she wasn’t around. No, tomorrow wasn’t a new day after all.
tara caribou | ©️2019