The Poolside Mirror

A Creative Memoir Vignette

(An expounded version of a tale from 'Lights Camera Action' with the expanded "Awakening")

I was a walking, talking, human version of an old, cozy, but totally threadbare sofa. You know the one—comfortable, familiar, and definitely in need of a good reupholstering. I was 65 years old—sixty-five!—but my inner narrative was still stuck on the whole “pregnancy-associated weight gain” story… twenty years later. Seriously.

A trip to Israel changed everything, who would have thunk?  Now don’t stop reading this is not a story about how the holy land changed me, keep going.

This wasn't just any vacation; it was the trip of a lifetime with my family. For them, it was their first time; for me, my third, and I planned the whole shebang. Every detail. We did everything. We rappelled down the cliffs at Mitzpe Ramon, we took a private glass-blowing class in Tzfat (and you know we tracked down the best cheese burrata and bought every kind of beautiful candle). We stayed right in the heart of the Armenian section of Jerusalem, in this incredible place where, rumor had it, the basement contained the actual well where Batsheva was drawing water when King David first saw her. It was pure magic. The whole experience with my family was utterly unforgettable.

I felt like the world's greatest planner, the ultimate matriarch, radiating joy and fun.

And then the pictures came.  My undeniable truth squelching years of my lying eyes.   I did not recognize that woman staring back at me.  I audibly said, “Dai” (enough).   That being said, this is no more than fodder for the great story to come, 

Forty pounds lighter, with my now long, wavy hair, which I dyed this fierce electric blue, frames my face with a natural-born Cruella de Vil streak right up front.  I had traded in the sofa for a sleek, powerful, electric sports car. I knew I looked good. I was 65 years old and I felt phenomenal. I felt like a mythological creature had been released from a human-shaped prison.

Which finally brings us to our story.  A bit racier in language than my usual yarn,  perhaps akin to the content for a Harlequin romance novel, but an allegory worth the read, let’s go.

It was a typical afternoon at the community pool.  The usual suspects were , gathered in one corner of the deck,  unabashedly gossiping, while providing up to the minute fashion reviews.  I had just finished a few easy laps, the kind where you pretend you’re exercising, but mostly you’re just cooling off. I was sitting on the edge, the water still dripping from the ends of my blue waves, I never grow weary of the the sun on my face, I quietly reflect on the Egyptians choice to worship Ra. A moment of utter serenity. My hair was up in a loose, damp knot, trying to dry a little.

And then, as I let my hair down to let it dry, I thought I saw a young hunkilitious  creation watching me.

I had to do a double-take—in my head, of course. My internal monologue was shouting, “Wait, what? Me?” I mean, yes, I was feeling good, but this guy was maybe 25, dripping water and pure, youthful male energy.

Me!!!! Sixty something me? The utter giggle of it all! I quickly amended my self-description: Sixty-five years young, newly svelte, and definitely in shape. But the thrill was undeniable. Through the side of my eye, barely brave enough to truly look up, he was watching me. His gaze was a laser beam, and I could feel it slicing through the air.

And that is when the performance began.

So, when I released my hair (yes released, he is watching so do not mock me! Where was I? Oh yes, releasing hair). I didn’t just let the knot fall. I went for the full, glorious, slow-motion movie moment. When I released my hair, I let it fall slowly as I gently caressed my curls, deliberately flipping it to the other side. The wet, blue-and-white cascade felt incredible against my back, a tangible sign of my vitality.

I stood up, moving with a slowness that felt almost liquid, consciously engaging the muscles I’d worked so hard to find.

I grabbed my towel. Now, this wasn't just drying. Seductively I dried my legs, in a slow deliberate manner. I took my sweet time, drawing the plush towel up from my ankles to my newly defined thighs.  

I could feel his young eyes following me. I glanced up just enough to confirm it—he hadn't moved. He was absolutely transfixed. I gave a tiny, almost imperceptible turn of my lips. I looked shyly down. (Oh, the acting! I was anything but shy! I felt empowered!)

I brought the towel up higher. Rubbing my arms with the towel, I raise each in the air to allow the sun to assist in my task. It was the oldest trick in the book, the stretch that elongates the torso and subtly highlights the lines of the back and shoulders. And it worked. I could feel the heat radiating off him. His eyes are burning through me.

When I finally draped the towel over the back of my chair and sat down, I was breathing a little faster, giddy with the spectacle I had created.

I felt good. I liked the feeling of my performance. I did!! It felt good. I felt beautiful.

And right there, under the blazing sun, the true realization hit me. I had used that young studlet as my mirror. His gaze, his attention—that’s what made me feel like I’d won some prize. But as I settled back, truly savoring the feeling of the sun on my skin, the strength in my body, and the easy way I could move, I thought: Why did I need him?

The truth is, this feeling, this wonderful, alive, beautiful feeling—I should have been basking in it for myself the whole time. The joy of my two required medications, the ease in my joints, the vibrant colour of my hair—that was the prize.

The hunk was just a lovely bonus, the little spotlight on a stage I had already built, decorated, and paid for with hard work and self-love. I didn't need him to feel good. I felt good because I was finally home in my own, amazing body.

As I turned to leave, I noticed behind me, three young bikini clad collegians, giggling and drinking bubbly wine coolers. .  

Laughing at myself, I let out a slow, satisfied breath, gave the towel one final, flirty toss just for the hell of it.