Gladys and Age

Gladys did not recognize the woman in the photograph. The woman was Germanic. The white skin was in crisp contrast to the mountain and the lake around and behind her. The pants rolled up above the knees revealed the stark Caucasian skin, which seemed to have been rarely touched by the sun. The woman’s arms were striped like a farmer’s. The short sleeves of the shirt betrayed the confidence of usual modesty, revealing the difference between under and overexposure. But the arms still seemed strong. It’s just that the skin looked a wee bit tattered.

This was definitely a woman over middle-age, so there was forgiveness for the corpulent torso sustained by thick legs. She must have had several grandchildren by now. How delightful. She seemed to be enjoying the small child splashing in the water next to her, while completely ignoring the fact that she was quite unfit.

Of nearly equal hue to her legs was her hair, almost as white as snow. It kind of tumbled around her forehead and cheeks with a whisper of coverage for what some might call a “sturdy” neck. Definitely Germanic.

After a few brief seconds of perusing the photo, Gladys was struck by the realization that she knew that child! It was her niece. If that was her niece who then was the woman? That question did not hang in the air for long.

She was the woman in the photograph! Gladys had been looking at herself with the kind of bland curiosity that comes when you are the visitor and your host pulls out a photo album. The shock of this self-revelation was like a lightning bolt that might strike when, just before you begin to yawn and reach for your sweet tea, you realize that this stranger has pictures of you they really should not have.

But here there was no stranger, no home visit, and no voyeurism. Gladys was looking at herself. This kind of self-awareness was rarely welcome or sought after. Yet she felt a certain sense of relief that her thoughts had not been repeats of the nasty comments of beauty pageant judges. That was a consolation.

But then some recrimination did begin. Though not bitter, it pressed like a dull paring knife. She really needed to lose weight. If only her skin were not so blazing white. She really should not wear those pants again. Familiar recriminations. Practiced patterns. But here was a new one: She was older!

Gladys had not fully realized she was quite so middle-aged. The gallons of lotion needed for her sagging skin spoke volumes about this, but she had been ignoring that. The diminished endurance had also been whispering behind her back. But this photo! Well, it just sealed the deal. No matter how many times her elderly friend with Alzheimer’s had admonished her not to get old, she could not avoid it. What would another twenty years do to her?

Yet something else drew Gladys back into the photograph. She took a good hard look at herself this time and at the child. Captured on her niece’s face was a look of pure hilarity and joy as her aunt chased her in the shallow water. And on her own face real happiness danced.

All the years of fretting about how she looked—or did not look—really were not worth any of that effort. Gladys was now content to be where she was, middle-aged and happy.

Yes, there were still the desires of youth and fortune, but those were familiar chimes on the great broad porch of her life. The breeze would continue to waft by and there was plenty of room for friends and family. Iced tea was always easy to share with visitors. And she would cross the seventy-year-old bridge when she got to it.