Blur

The foreign shape in the glass I stand in front of has growth around the lower curves. I slap shaving gel on it and wield an ancient Trac II with an over-used blade through the grate. Raking the razor down the first run and back up several times to slice the remaining protrusions, my fingers adroitly detect if a rough patch needs attention. If smooth after several laps and no white foam remains, good enough, and I move on to scale the fur off my ragged teeth with what should be a wire brush and diesel.

By virtue of vanity, I flip my blond hair back out of my eyes having not been cajoled into the hair gel convention or the more awkward and ugly man-bun trope. My inner hippie wants to let it all hang out.

Prepped for parade, my eyes glisten at the turn of an attractive lady as I stroll down the street, content she smiles back rather than alarmed by a creep. At least I turned in my tie-dyed t-shirt and ripped jeans for a collared shirt and slim-fitting jeans from an upscale neighborhood’s Goodwill store.

Detesting the thought of a dad bod, I run a rural highway to stay in shape. Try as I can to fit it in my busy schedule, I hit the gym a couple of times a week and pump iron as I watch younger studs come in and fake. The boys come wearing branded long sloppy shorts and branded loose-fitting shirts slurping down pre-workout shakes to make up for their lack of energy to actually pump the weights. They come in to play weightlifter for 30 minutes then out the door as others file in and follow suit. I watch several generations go through the motions of getting in shape spending their valuable time at the “Y” checking their phones and primping for a date. My phone remains buried in my gym bag as I killed it once leaving it in the truck in the summer’s heat. I come in to focus and thrive on pushing more weight, so much so, I tore both rotator cuffs at the same time.

Educated by twenty years of school and the military for another twenty by proxy, there isn’t enough time to read as my reading list gets taller. I’m weirdly excited to sit at my otherwise organized desk amongst the literary clutter having been delivered by Amazon; the UPS driver and I are on a first-name basis. Next, I’ll have to add him to my Christmas list, ask what his birthday is, and have a cake ready for him when he delivers on that date.

I read everything from YA to Tony Robbins, Hugh Howey to Yuri Noah Harari, in no special order. My mind is so open, I find it hard to conjure and write dark, ghastly scenes unless I toil late at night, dial-up stormy weather tracks, peck one-fingered on the candlelit keyboard, and whack staples to the back of my hand.

Every couple of months I go out with my old buddies and drink until we close down the bars. I’m allowed to unwind as otherwise, I’d work. I don’t remain still for very long. If required by circumstances to sit at length, I’m lost in focus and remain tethered for hours. When I do get up eventually to refill my coffee cup, the lack of blood in my feet as I stumble to the pot tell me I sat too long.

Calmed by road training, reading, and meditation, my blood pressure’s so low I fall asleep on the doctor’s table waiting for a colonoscopy.

Forty-hour weeks haven’t been seen by the likes of me for decades. Driving, pushing, moving, running, and racing the other rats have taken their toll. When I wasn’t looking, too many years passed over my unrecognizable face.

But I won’t stop. I will die in the field, on the highway, on a roof or a tree, but I’ll be dammed if I die sitting down.

Thank god, my mind is trapped in youth because I don’t know who he is staring back at me shaving. That guy looks nothing like me. It doesn’t show the miles I’ve trod, the lessons I failed, the depths I’ve gone, the guilts I’ve forgiven.

Maybe it does and that’s what it looks like.

I hate mirrors.