The Woman I See

        The woman standing in front of me is older, but not so much that you would think twice about it. Strands of silver lace through brunette waves, like the last few bits of tinsel woven deep into the branches of a Christmas tree. Fireworks of green, gold, and brown burst in the sunlight under long, dark eyelashes. Her hourglass figure has gained several hours and is pitted in places it would not be if it was better cared for. Thickness around her waist and bottom half troubles her as you can see by the way she walks and subconsciously tugs her shirt down. Memory filled laugh lines appear when her bright smile shows off not quite perfect teeth and deep dimples, reminding me of beautiful times in life. She doesn’t turn heads, but she has a sweetness about her that is comforting. Her white hands appear soft; they are not adorned with anything other than a diamond and silver wedding set. She wears clothes that tend to appear to have belonged to her for a while, comfortable and familiar. I have seen her in fancier attire, but not as often lately, although I am not sure why that is. She appears a bit downtrodden lately, worn thin. She is rarely alone, but she seems to be well loved. I have heard her answer to many different names; she is Mom, Mommy, daughter, wife, sister, and friend. I have even heard her given name, but I am not sure that I know her.

When I go to the grocery store, when I am waiting in the car pick up line at the kids’ schools, while shopping at the mall, or dining out at a restaurant, I have seen her. She is interwoven throughout my life, yet she remains a mystery. I often wonder what she thinks of me, or if I ever cross her mind.

I look away from her now, as I have gazed too long in her direction. She cannot continue to distract me from my life and my family. I know that I will see her again soon, as I see her nearly every day. Some days she smiles at me, other days she appears too tired and worn down to make the effort. I try to encourage her with my own smile and I often fall short.

By contrast, I am a spring chicken, as they say. I am not sure where that saying comes from, but I find it humorous enough to sprinkle into my conversations on occasion. Silky chocolate waves cascade over my shoulders, no tinsel for me. I have the same vivid green, gold and brown fireworks under my long, dark lashes, and I love them. My hourglass is more evenly distributed with the sands of time, remaining smooth. I am confident in myself, showing off my curves in flattering jeans and lower cut tops, I have nothing to hide other than a few tiger stripes from my pregnancies. Tiny crinkles are starting to form in the corners of my eyes, but they only float on the surface of my smooth skin. Dimples frame my smile as well, parentheses around a captivating smile. A diamond and silver wedding set is my only adornment as well, although my hands are milky and smooth by comparison. My clothes accentuate my figure and shopping is fun for me. I love new clothes and how they hug my fit body; I have nothing in my wardrobe older than a year, maybe two. Dressing up in fancy dresses, doing my hair and makeup, and wearing heels is my favorite thing to do nearly every other weekend, I can’t imagine not getting dolled up, which is another saying I find amusing. I find myself answering to the same names as she does: I am Mom, Mommy, daughter, wife, sister, and friend.

          The woman I see is often a distorted image. In the grocery store, I see her through the cold case door, picking out frozen vegetables. At the kids’ schools, I glimpse her in the rear view mirror, glancing up from her phone, searching for her little ones’ sweet faces. Shopping at the mall, she is trying on clothes in the fitting rooms, looking discouraged and often leaving without making a purchase. While dining at a restaurant, she peers at me in the bathroom mirror, half smiling at anyone who goes in or out. She tries to be friendly, but anyone can tell she is an introvert, as it’s difficult for her to make eye contact. I’ve engaged in conversation with her on occasion, and I find her quite intelligent and sweet.

          Why do I feel the need to compare myself to her? Why do I notice her so much and know so many things about her? Why is it important for me to acknowledge her existence? Because, I am her and she is me. How I see myself, more as I used to be, and as I wish I still was, is no longer accurate. I have no delusions, although I would love to be able to keep this version of myself forever. In the same way, the stranger is not who I thought I would be by this point in my life, but she is beautiful in her own way. I am proud of her and all she has been through, she is strong and determined.

 Age has come swiftly and refuses to slow down for me, even though I wish it would with all my heart. I long for the me I feel I am when I refuse to look at the stranger; she is young and vibrant, fit and happy. She is the me I knew before kids, before life got complicated. The stranger has more scars, marks of life and age, beautiful and ugly at the same time. Each one tells a story, some proud and some not. Both of these women are notable in their own ways, but I do not know this older version of me well. I am doing everything I can do to get to know her and love her as much as she deserves.