I Don’t Know Whose Body I’m In
That Reflection is a G-Damned Liar.
I don’t know whose body I’m in. Inside, I’m the same as I always have been. Spiritual, magical, mystical, enchanted, sparkly. But I don’t hold the same charisma. I’m not some 25-year-old Las Vegas bartender in Daisy Dukes weighing in at 125 pounds. Gone is the long, blond mane that I wore like a golden crown. My Cheshire Cat smile that used to take up my whole face is faded by insecurity.
I’ve started making TikTok videos lately. It began with makeup tutorials because I’m now promoting the makeup I learned to love, a cream-based makeup for “mature skin.”
Ugh. Really? When did I become someone with mature skin?
But then I started going on what I call TikTok walks where I grab my selfie stick and head out the door for a 15-minute walk, one that I need for two reasons. First, because I got fat. Second, because I got fat due to a leg injury (a doozy!), the inability to move, and a new lonesome lifestyle that left me eating my boredom and emotions.
It’s the first time I’ve ever lived alone, and food equals love. Food equals entertainment. Food equals instant gratification. Food equals pleasure that I’m not getting from other sources *wink*. Plus, I took up baking as a hobby, which meant I had really, really good schnacks.
I knew I gained weight. I’ve been on the scale. Granted, it’s 11 pounds less now than it was mid-winter, but that shouldn’t be enough to make me pleased with myself. But the thing is, I never see myself. I never go anywhere, so there’s no need to “get dressed” or look into a full-length mirror. And when I’m in front of the bathroom mirror to brush my hair, I only look from the shoulders up because it pains me to look at myself in my rounding torso.
So I put on my makeup because I want to feel “put together” and because, even though I work two jobs, I think the makeup could make for a good third income stream; plus, I enjoy the creativity of making the videos. But then TikTok happened, and I accidentally got over 4,000 views on one short walk.
On one hand, I’m proud of myself that people appreciate what I have to say. On the other hand, I watch those videos and have no idea who it is I’m looking at. Who is that in those reflections — the mirror and the camera? Why is there a second chin? Why are there wrinkles coiling around my lips? Why is there a crevice that extends from the bag on my eye to my double chin? Why does my hair look so thin? Is my nose really that big, now?
My first TikTok walk was about being vulnerable. It was the first authentic video I made with me talking in real-time instead of hiding behind a voiceover. I talked about my son and his family leaving and my fear of being alone.
My second was about being single over 50 and why I’m choosing to stay that way. And I wonder if I’m choosing to stay that way, not only because I realize that I was a bad partner who chose bad partners, but also because I’m scared — afraid to tell my secrets. Afraid of expectations. Afraid of rejection. Afraid to be vulnerable. Or because I’ve made up my mind that no one will want me.
Maybe all of the above.
My third video, the one that gained popularity, was about the ACOTAR series of books I read and how it was inspiring because all of the female main characters started out as frail victims and then trained their bodies, minds, souls, and wills to become forces to be reckoned with. Warriors.
Bad ass bitches.
And I want to warrior up.
Seeing myself on those videos made me not want to do makeup tutorials anymore. I think to myself, “I’m only 51. That is not old”. And if I were 81, I’d look at this phase of my life like I was full of youth. Yet, I am struggling so much with aging. I really, really am struggling with getting older, and growing old alone.
And these books I’m reading. I’ve read 18 this year so far. I love them; they’re wonderful, they’re enchanting, and they’re moving, inspiring, and fulfilling creatively. They help me pass the time with something to indulge in other than food. And while the bad-ass attitudes of these FMCs made me also want to warrior up, I am also aware that they all have something I don’t, and probably never will again: A soul mate. Someone who can “reach through the bond.”
And it’s more than that. In each of these books, even by different authors, these star-crossed lovers come to the realization that “home” is with their partner, not in a place.
And when I looked at him, I realized I was home.
I’ve said a lot lately that I don’t feel like I have a home. Nowhere has ever felt like I truly belonged. I’ve moved from place to place to place and from partner to partner to partner, and now I wonder if, in a sense, I’m homeless. I mean, I have an apartment, and there’s a roof over my head (a comfortable one), but I’m unsettled.
And I fully believe that no man is going to look at me again as though I hung the sun and moon.
In my mind, men want young, smooth, firm, perky, untainted women — not a plump grandma with janky teeth and bipolar disorder.
And so I need to redefine myself now. What is home? Is it only a place where I can have my grandkids on the weekend to play? Where I can spend holidays with my adult kids? Is home back in Vegas with my mother and two of my siblings? Is home in Kentucky where I spent 13 years raising my young kids? Is home with a man? A partner? A mate?
It can’t be. It can’t be because all of those things are gone now. The grandkids are moving in 3 weeks. Two of my children will be close enough to share holidays together, but in a different state — without me.
I have to find home inside of me. I have to be okay, even if no one calls me to see if I’m okay. I’m not even sure why I pay for a cell phone except to schedule doctor’s appointments and make and watch TikTok videos. Even if no one pops by just to see how I’m doing. Even if no one notices that I haven’t left my apartment for more than 30 days.
In my head, I’m still 25. I’m still a young, single mother looking for Mr. Right to sweep me off my feet. In my head, I can still wear short shorts with knee-high boots. In my head, I still weigh a buck and a quarter without a single wrinkle on my pretty little face. But then I look in the mirror and it’s a g-damned liar.
I don’t know that woman. She is a stranger to me.
I know I can’t be young again. I know that even with all the eye creams in the world, I’ll still have bags, and with all the moisturizers and products, my wrinkles will still be there.
The problem is, I feel undesirable, as if my worth lies in the hands of a man. Any man. A man who will tell me I’m beautiful and make me believe it.
But I know better.
I have to love myself, find my inner beauty, and find and nurture self-worth in spite of what the mirror tells me.
And I have to know that even when I’m not okay, I’m still okay.
“Home”
There’s a Gypsy in me
Twirling under the moon
Where my spirit flies free
And I dance to life’s tune
I move to my own rhythm
And beat my own drum
The world my prism
Beneath the golden sun.
The name Wendi means to wander
And I most certainly do
I roam and I saunter
Like free birds do
I’ve lived many places
And seen wonderful things
Kissed beautiful faces
Caught many dreams
I am a branch that bends
My soul doesn’t crack
What breaks, I mend
And I don’t look back.
I always look
For where magic abounds
Not what life took
But what I have found
I’m grateful beyond measure
For my walking boots
But one thing I’d treasure
Is a place to grow roots.
Because as I saunter,
wander, and roam,
There’s one thing missing:
A place to call home.
