I stared in the mirror. My mother stared back at me.
"When did this happen?" I asked my husband who had a mouth full of toothpaste.
"What?" he asked as he rinsed his toothbrush.
"I’VE BECOME MY MOTHER!" I shouted.
He shook his head, "No, you haven’t."
"Yes I have!" I choked, "All I need is some orange lipstick, big glasses, a perm and VOILA! I’m her!"
“Look,” he sighed, “You might look a bit like her around the eyes, but that’s it!” He walked out of the bathroom and crawled into bed.
I leaned closer to the mirror and asked, “Did I always look like my Mom? I mean, when I was walking down the aisle toward you on our wedding day, did you think, ‘Oh boy, here comes Vicky’s Mom!’”
He laughed, “Of course not! Your Mom is a very beautiful woman, but you were your own unique person with your own individual look when I married you.”
I spun to look at him, “Where did you read that?”
He flicked out the light, “Come to bed, Mom …er … uh, honey,” he joked.
As I poked around my face with one finger, I wondered why it was annoying me so much to look like my mother. Then I saw it—a gray hair standing out from all the rest—taunting me.
“THAT’S IT!” I screeched. I’VE REACHED MIDDLE AGE!”
My husband sat up with a start. “You’re just realizing this now? At eleven o’clock on a Saturday night?” he asked.
“When I start to look like my mother, I’ve officially reached middle age!” I shouted. “Women are born knowing this fact. This is not something we learned in textbooks or on the Internet.”
Silence greeted me. I knew he was too scared to reply for fear he’d say the wrong thing like, “Middle age is not really a big deal. I mean, who cares if you have a roll around your stomach, wrinkles around your eyes, and hair growing in places you shouldn’t?”
I was becoming more horrified by the minute. “I might as well just go out tomorrow morning and buy a pair of polyester pants with an elastic waist and some orthopedic shoes,” I sobbed as I leaned on the bathroom counter.
Suddenly, I felt a pair of arms wrap around me from behind. My husband whispered in my ear, “You’re still the girl I married.”
“Except now I’m going to have to get my hair done once a week at the beauty salon instead of every six weeks and I’ll be downing Geritol® faster than you can say ‘Where’s that social security check?’” I cried.
And then he said it. The thing he knew he probably shouldn’t have, but he did anyway, “Sweetie, are you starting menopause?”
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, guess who is sleeping on the couch tonight?