Recognition

Recognition There I am again, in the wall-size mirror at the gym, myself seeing myself, a compulsion of sorts, a checking-in to see what has changed. My bent and rotated spine is always the same — a very noticeable dog-leg listing me to port. There are those who look at themselves each morning in the mirror and think, “Damn, I look good.” Perhaps the guy at the gym with the triangular upper body and tree-thick thighs does this, but I don’t know him, so he doesn’t count. I don’t feel very old inside except on cloudy, wet days. My exterior says otherwise; that doesn’t matter much now. I know shadowy mortality lies in wait. Occasionally I hazard a quiet guess about the time I have left, a fruitless contemplation, leading only to gloom and foreboding. Most often I move on to meaningful pursuits: driving much too fast, eating ice cream, making love, writing and painting to sustain my soul. Some believe that one should, "Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse." I regret not living fast enough in my youth, I’m thankful I’m not James Dean, and ashes are only as beautiful as the urn in which they are stored. So, henceforth I shall marvel at my visage in the mirror, appreciating both my continued presence and the elegant curve of my crookedness.