Not Myself

I'm not sure who this person is, the one who looks sad and lifeless when I see her in the bathroom mirror at our friends' house--after burgers and birthday cake for Michael--or in the dressing-room mirror on the second floor of Bloomingdale's. [Figgy had to hit Willowbrook Mall for camp--she headed to H&M for socks and bras, and I was drawn to the magnetic force of the most upscale store I could find. But did not overspend. Just $33.15 on a ruffly Lauren top in optimistic fuchsia, deep sale.]

This stranger is not even wearing a lick of lipstick, or a dab of trendy nude gloss. Doesn't she care?

In any case, am about to brush my teeth, get a big glass of ice water and curl up in bed with Vogue Magazine [Gywneth is on the cover] to escape her dull gray wash. Confronting her with these deliberate keystrokes, these candid words, these honest sentences, is another way to face off and fight her.

Good night. May the brush strokes on our days--yours and mine--be vibrant and rich going forward. May we see ourselves in living color.