I’m attempting first person so bear with me lol. I’ve not written it in a while and so forgive any 3rd person slips. I will edit this more later.
Spend time looking in the mirror. Who do you see? What do you see? How do you feel about it?
I angled a look at my snoring husband and grabbed the hand mirror on the bed next to me. This was the stupidest assignment ever. Infuriatingly difficult too. I mean who looks in a mirror as though it’s a crystal ball? Seeking answers about themselves? I angled my face left and right, up and down, seeking the secret portal into myself. I was supposed to do it standing but poo, I was tired from all the exercises she gave to help improve my levels. I’d only gone to one session and it felt like a year.
Just find your stupid hidden reflection, Nan. Play along.
After five minutes, I shook my head right at myself. “See Nan,” I whispered. “You’ve been looking in the mirror all wrong.”
I lowered it to my lap, thinking back. Momma never indicated any kind of way to look in no mirror. Only thing was hurryin up. She’d tan my hide if I tarried too long in the devil’s vanity portal. Mirrors were for making sure you found your mouth with the toothbrush, or made sure your hair was in proper disarray, your make-up was put on straight.
I picked up the mirror again and stared for many seconds. “God, you are old,” I muttered. I pulled at the skin next to my eyes until I looked Chinese then tugged at my forehead. I snickered when my eyelids lifted off my eyeballs. My smile slowly faded then I morphed it into a smirk. Then a snarl. I continued to contort my face into one demonic mask after another, snickering at how awful I looked. Was nothing but hilarious.
I lowered the mirror to my lap, niggled by a thought. I really didn’t care about my looks. Why didn’t I care?
I backtracked down memory lane, looking for a point in time when I did care. When I was at the earliest memories, I whispered, “Wow,” in amazement. Momma’s shrilly voice echoed in my head, you care too much about your dumb looks. But no. No, I hadn’t, I really hadn’t. I cared about doing things right with my hair and clothes. Not to make myself look any kind of way but to get things correct. Doing things proper was the important thing. Not how it made me look.
I picked up the mirror again and found a slight smile on my face. I pursed my lips, considering why that would make me happy. Why would not caring about my looks be something to smile about? I didn’t know. And I didn’t care that I didn’t know. Why. Why why why. That was the big word at therapy it seemed. She had a why with every question and it was dadgum annoying. Why did she need to know why? Why did I need to know why? What was the blessed point of it? She seemed to think the whys held all the answers but that was dumb. To me the what’s held the answers. Like what’s this and what’s that? What’s next, what’s happening now? What’s happening tomorrow? What will I be doing. I wanted to do things, not ask why why why about everything that already happened!
I leaned back in disgust, angling a glare at Jack’s snoring back. This was his fault. If I wanted to ask why about anything, it would be concerning him. Like why couldn’t he just give me the damn money to go on my little trip with the girls? Why all of a sudden he thought I needed fixing? That sudden why made me squint my eyes as it hit me. Hit me why he was making me go through this stupid therapy stuff. It wasn’t because he was worried about my state of mind, it was because he was cheap. So cheap he’d make me go to therapy–that his job paid for–so he didn’t have to pay for my little vacation. That’s why.
My cheeks burned as I sat there, considering that. And the more I thought about it the more it made perfect sense. Anything to save a dime for his pet projects. How dare he do this to me? I was a faithful wife, a faithful cook and house maid. I was a faithful everything to him, waiting at the damn door every day for him to get home, making sure everything was in order. I never asked for anything. Mostly because I never wanted anything and what did he do? Worked. Work work work work work work. All I had was crafts. What good were crafts when you had nobody to oooh and ahhh with over them? And his oh that’s nice was as tired as his libido and that was damn dead dog tired.
I let out an irate huff. Therapy! How dare he!
I opened the bedside drawer and threw the stupid hand mirror in and and slammed it shut.
“W-what? What you say?”
“Nothing, Jack,” I spat, glaring at him. He was already snoring again. “Not a damn thing, Jack. You get back to your snoring you lousy piece of shit,” I muttered, throwing off the covers and jamming my feet into my house slippers. I headed down stairs and made a beeline for the fridge. “Therapy,” I said, yanking the door open and pulling out the chocolate cake I’d faithfully baked just for him every Thursday. I set the whole thing on the counter and plopped onto a stool, jerking the utensil drawer open next to me. “I need therapy?” I stabbed the fork into the center of the cake and shoveled a bite in. “I need therapy?” I mumbled incredulously around the food while staring at messy crater I’d made. Good. Messy craters in cakes were good. “I”m not the one needing therapy. You need therapy. Mmm, God this is good.” I stabbed off another chunk and opened wide, moaning as I chewed slowly. Closest thing to an orgasm I’d had in … I jammed another mouthful of cake in. Who needs orgasms? I sure don’t. “I don’t need anything. Nan don’t need nothin baby,” I mumbled louder, my cheeks full as I pointed my fork toward that snoring bastard. But Nan wanted. Nan deserved. Nan earned. I nodded my glare in his direction. “You owe me this, Jack. You owe me and I’m cashing in. Like it or not.”
Feeling like Rocky Balboa, I poured myself a large glass of milk and downed it in one go then set the glass on the counter with a bang. The fire of determination had me more hungry than ever. After, I stormed back over to the fridge, robe flying valiantly. “I’m going on that trip come hell or high water buddy.” I opened the door and bent down to stare in it then straightened and faced the bedroom. “And I’m not going to therapy,” I hissed with a finger jab his way before getting back to the night’s leftovers. “You can go to therapy. You damn well need it more than me, I promise you.” Anger fueled my confidence and I pulled out container after container and plopped them onto the counter with a careless racket. I hope it woke him. I hope he got up and came in here to see. See me messing up the kitchen late. Oh he didn’t like that. Things needed to be done in order.
I froze as I realized something. Like I’m a child. That’s how he makes me feel, like a child. I needed to write that one in that little therapist journal. That was my problem, him. Daddy Jack. I let out a gasp of shock as the realization sank in deeper. Daddy Jack. That’s it. That’s exactly our problem. My problem and his. He treats me like a child! Like some overgrown invalid!
But I was not a child. I was a full grown woman. A woman with feelings, a woman with needs and wants. Maybe the gods did skip me when they handed out talents but that didn’t mean I didn’t have gifts. I had many gifts. I could make high quality wreaths, and I had outstanding scrap booking abilities. I could crochet the tightest oven mitts like nobody’s business. And I had a very green thumb, greener than green. Maybe I couldn’t dance or sing or write, but whatever magic those kinds of people had, I had it too! I just had different mediums to express those gifts that’s all. I was nice. I was … I was committed. Hell, I’m a hero and a heroine. No, I couldn’t write it, I couldn’t sing it, draw it, or dance it. But I could live it. And my first dance step, my first lyric, my first drop of paint on the canvas or word on that sheet of paper was going to be this trip with my internet girlfriends. Damn right it would be. I’d show him.
I didn’t need him. On the contrary–he needed me.