The Dressing Room

Humility is a great quality. Well, if you ever need to be reminded of that, make sure you are at least fifty something, then go shopping for some clothes after winter, just as your mind is full of bright colours and your expanded form full of springtime fever. I did that today. The fashion gurus this spring and summer seem apparently intent on bringing back the dubious styles of the mid seventies. I can only imagine what that could possibly mean. I guess we will be making macrame hanging baskets next. Hopefully it will not also include being out in the streets protesting another dead end hypocritical war like Vietnam. Anyway, there I was, brightly flower patterned blouses in hand, on my way to the dressing room, cringing at some of the more nauseating colours and styles I came across on my way to the forever formidable inescapable truth those quiet private spaces with locking doors convey. There is the initial moment of bliss that comes with anticipating the trying on of something new. Held up to my clothed self, the prospect seemed hopeful. The undressing is always the moment of unwanted truth, and the sheepish feeling it comes with even if you are in that dreaded moment by yourself, because it invariably feels like some sadistic warden is watching you, laughing cruelly as the mirror reveals the reality of the event. Okay, well, that stupid blouse is obviously not appreciating my unique body. Geese, doesn't anyone know how to make decent clothes anymore? I remember wearing something like this in high school, it looked good then. What is the problem here, people? Look at that charming face, anything would look good with that. Look at that smile, damn, you still got it. Now why the hell does this not fit? The stupid light in here, and that mirror! What is it with these dressing room mirrors? Do they purposely go out of their way to make people's new clothes look this unflattering? My mirror at home, now that mirror has class. Everything looks good on me there. God, so what do I do? Take this home, I bet these blouses will look super cute with those pants I got earlier. They sure don't look any good here. I bet it is because I am hungry, yes, that's it , this whole hunger thing has me look at this outfit all wrong. Then you go and ask your husband and he is trying to be as nice as possible, saying things like a different colour would bring out your eyes more. Of course! That's it! Why did I not think of this? So, I actually go and get the blouse in a green colour. The thing is, dressing rooms look the same our whole lives long. They are the forbidden space we dare to go in, from the first bra we try on, to the dress we buy for our fiftieth birthday, and it is a scary place scary all the visits in between. That is because our bodies are not frozen in style and time, like the dressing rooms. They change. And it is the damnest thing, we get older, and our bodies right alongside with us. Over the years I have come to terms with that, I think it was actually when I turned fifty. I looked at my naked shape in all its vulnerability in that cold, neutral space with that heartless, judge of the strange, unfriendly large mirrors all around me of  the department dressing room that day, and I saw someone who had been through some stuff and who was proud, and strong, who had taken some blows but came out wiser, kinder, and who was still imperfectly attractive. So I looked back at that woman I saw in that unforgiving mirror, and I decided at that moment that I would forgive my imperfect, lived in body, because it was a reflection of the story of my lived in heart and soul. That allowed me to look at what I saw with both humour and tolerance, with appreciation and pride. This was me, all of me and , apparently, from some angles, more of me. I smiled at my reflection in that mirror then, and I smiled at it today. Life marks us. It marks our bodies as it marks our souls. I saw a woman both vulnerable and tough, both humble and proud. I saw power in my eyes, determination in my stance, I saw someone whose body revealed the challenge of having your identity and integrity mocked and questioned. I saw courage in my broad hips and strong legs, warmth, tolerance and heart in my ample bosom. I saw youth still in my smile and in my curly long blond hair. I saw the story of me, and the  naked imperfections were just part of what made me "me ". I tried on a few more blouses, until I found the ones that matched that pride and determination, and I walked out of there aware I was just one of the billions of people on this amazing planet who was and had been doing their very best under at differing intervals, trying and unflattering circumstances. I walked away at peace with the imperfect body that held the imperfect me, in all its glorious, heartbreaking, infuriating, tender, inspiring, annoying and lovable curves and charms.