Halfway through my morning, I tried a meditation practice aimed at being present with my true self. It's a technic called, The Mirror Exercise. Here is what you do...
Sit six inches away from a mirror and focus on one eye. After 3 to 5 minutes, smile big and say, "You're okay with me." This, according to the author, will prompt a rush of joy AND you will be introduced to someone you are destined to meet.
This was appealing to me on many levels so I grabbed a vanity makeup mirror and positioned myself on a comfy chair beside a bright, sunny window. After intense overthinking, I chose my right eye. My gaze fixated on the hollowness of my pupil, then the burst of brown and globe of seafoam blue that orbited it. I envisioned my pupil as the moon and my iris, its galaxy.
And then my gaze shifted to my nose. On it was a mass of blackheads. I thought blackheads were part of my 20's and had no idea it was hormonally possible to develop this post-menopause.
I pushed the mirror aside and made an appointment for a facial.
Later that day, I stopped at a trendy eyewear shop enquiring about my need for bifocals. Somewhere in my 50's, glasses became my favorite accessory but since corrective Lasik surgery, my only need for eyewear is sunglasses or blue light filtering glasses. The optometrist reassured me that my vision was excellent (for a woman my age) then showed me their youthful-looking frames.
Next door is Anne Fontaine - a stiff, frilly Parisian fashion boutique I am oddly attracted to.
I grabbed a stark white, slim-cut, unforgiving blouse and headed towards the dressing room. From the inventory supply room emerged a little girl of three, a sales associate's daughter, who was entertaining herself stacking shoe boxes - one on top of the other - and then knocking them down.
I pulled the dressing room curtain closed and stripped off my top and bra. Before I had a chance to try on the suggested camisole and blouse, the little girl peaked in from under the curtain and asked, "what happened to your arm?"
My arm? I questioned, nothing happened to my arm. It's not toned, I won't wear sleeveless shirts anymore, but my arm is fine.
Somehow, this child glazed over my massive, double mastectomy scars, my three melanoma scars, my circular, bellybutton-number-three scar, my chemo port scar, my abdominal surgery scars - one stretching horizontally across the entire length of my stomach and the other vertically from the center peak of my ribcage to the tip of my pubic bone.
"Nothing is wrong with my arm," I snapped.
"Was it bugs?" she asked. "Was it bugs that did that to your arm?"
Frayed and annoyed I answered, "YES, bugs. Big bugs - lots of them. They got me good. They got me when I was sleeping... in my bed. Bed bugs. BIG bed bugs. I hope they don't get you!"
I dismissed the latest collection of Parisian wear, stained by a little girls screams, and left empty-handed.
Back in the comforts of home, I poured a bowl of wine and looked over my phone messages. There was a text from an unknown sender. I clicked on the number and there he was...
The person I was destined to meet. My morning meditation came true.
Mark Ruffalo, it's YOU!
Font made larger to accommodate those of us who don't know we have blackheads.