Through the
                Mirror 
                by Bill Tope 
                Fresh from the shower, he
                stood naked before the dresser mirror, gazing
                appraisingly at his reflection and dripping water
                onto the carpeted floor. He was not one to bother
                with such things as a rule; he had always had a
                more than adequate body:  good physique,
                flat stomach, fine muscle tone, nice hair, been
                attractive to women.  At least, he told
                himself, he had done more than alright with the
                fairer sex and he Indulged himself in a smirk
                that he didn't really feel.  His reflection
                shrugged at him.  Enough of that; time to
                take stock. 
                 
                The first thing, he noted critically, was that he
                had gained weight.  A lot of it!  For
                years he Had weighed precisely 150 pounds. 
                But now he must tip the scales at 175 or 180. 
                He struck a profile, noted with disdain that his
                belly sagged where it had once been so flat and
                firm.  He remembered seeing other men on the
                street and thinking scornfully of how they had
                let themselves go.  How he would never allow
                that to happen to him!  No, he would age
                with grace, with some dignity, for Christ's sake. 
                But now look at him. Ugh!  He looked away in
                disgust.  He turned back to face the mirror
                again.  He had always had rather well-developed
                biceps, he reminded himself. 
                 
                In his youth--not that long
                ago--he had frequently donned a tee shirt a size
                or two too small, in order to emphasize their
                prominence.  He made a muscle.  Frowned. 
                Not much there, he noted ruefully, then he gazed
                down at his forearms. His skin seemed paper-thin;
                he could barely discern the sprinkling of
                freckles that had once adorned his limbs. And
                what was that?  Liver spots!  My God. 
                He heaved a great sigh, shook his head woefully. 
                  
                Next he looked at his legs. What he saw there
                didn't impress him much....then he stopped
                himself.  On the other hand, he thought
                instead, he could still run five miles in about
                forty-five minutes, could still do fifty pushups
                without stopping.  He was in pretty good
                shape, really, for a man his age.  He stood
                a little straighter.  And didn't he have a
                date tonight with a most bodacious woman? 
                Maybe, he thought, he'd get lucky.  He'd
                count on it!  It was a dinner in honor of
                his birthday, even though he wouldn't be 91 for
                another two weeks yet.  Whistling a merry
                tune, he hurried to get dressed for his date. 
                
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