The man in the mirror (no, not the Michael Jackson song)

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror this morning and saw someone older. It could very well be the poor lighting in my bathroom, but I saw the same stranger when I washed the tangerine peel stain from my fingertips a few hours ago. Who was he? Where has he been? Why hasn’t he spoken up sooner about the horribly humdrum ride he’s been having?

He’s me, obviously. He’s been everywhere I’ve been. And I’ve turned a deaf ear to his rants and needs. We are equals but I discriminate him. I’ve never once offered my handkerchief to dry his grief. Why?

I remember now. He’s not as harmless as he appears. I have reasons why I dislike him. Because whether or not I listen to him, he always finds a way to slip poison into my drink, my verbal tonic. He always finds a way to lace my thoughts with doubts and he always take me for granted. He cares too much for me but just as easily forgets my needs.

All to often I’ve been the backseat driver to my own life. There’s a pro and con to this. On one hand, I get to enjoy (or dislike) the scenery. And on the other, I’m powerless to decide which scenery I’ll be enjoying (or disliking). No…not powerless, no…never. Passive, maybe, but never powerless. Perhaps it’s time to activate the emergency button on this ride and ask the stranger to help me read this sketchy, dismantled map.

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