I walked up the stairs of our home as I have done thousands of times before. But this time, as I reached the landing, I happened to catch my reflection in the glass covering the large print at the top of the stairs. It caught me off guard, as in the afternoon light, the reflection looked like that of a woman in her fifties, with wrinkles at her eyes. A mature woman. Now, I realize that I am fifty-one, but I have never felt like it. I think my mind is stuck on the notion that I’m still in my thirties. My face has always had a mind of its own, though, and raced on ahead.
It was a sobering moment. I don’t think I’m ready to be the ‘mature’ woman yet. I’m still goofy, still often insecure, still finding out who I really am. Mature woman have a sense of self, they are confident, they are graceful. I still trip over my own feet at times, get tongue-tied when I am nervous. I have known several amazing mature women during my lifetime- how could I ever measure up to them? Somehow I had to make sense of this confusing scenario.
Maybe all of those mature women that I admire have their own doubts and fears. Maybe they feel unsure at times, feel clumsy. Perhaps the aura of confidence they exude is something else altogether. What if their perspective is what is different? The vantage point of years, a recognition that faults add character and charm, that beauty is so much more than that reflection in the glass. That wrinkles are badges, gifts of years spent smiling, laughing, crying, loving…years spent living life.
I looked again at my reflection. I felt a shift in my perspective. And I smiled.