Upon (Further) Reflection

Photo by Lucas Allmann on Pexels.com

Save for the photographs – terrifyingly accurate though they are – that occasionally pop up as my avatar on this site, I suddenly realise that you have never actually seen me and, following on from Monday’s post, that you probably would never choose to do so without the presence of an armed guard and one of those screens that you peer through when attempting to look directly at the Sun.  I may, I fear, have let my insecurities run just a little too free.  I don’t think that I am completely unsightly – although if I’m honest, the way my eyesight is going I could never be sure – people do not scream when they see me (although, if I’m honest, the state my hearing’s in I would never know), they do not cover their children’s eyes.

Now, don’t get me wrong here, I would never claim to be handsome – even my imagination does not stretch that far – but I don’t think that I actually curdle milk.  I would describe myself – charitably, I fear – as ‘normal-looking’.  I’m pretty sure that nobody has ever befriended me for my looks.  People regularly tell me that I look young for my age, but what does that mean?  The Alien that burst through John Hurt’s chest in the film of the same name was newborn, but not exactly a looker.  Looking young is not necessarily a good thing: we all know the story of The Ugly Duckling and we all want to be the swan.  Also, being told that you look young always comes with a little codicil: that you tell the other person that they do too.

I am perfectly happy to be told that I look younger than my years, but I can’t pretend that it is anything over which I have had any control.  I do almost everything possible – according to the internet – to make me look older than my years.  I am the dictionary definition of ‘what the hell?’  My hair is long because I do not get it cut.  My wife says that it has no style, and for that one thing I am grateful.  I have a beard because I cannot be bothered to shave.  I spent all of my younger years scraping the skin off my face, perpetually sore, I’m not doing that anymore.  I will never be a clean shaven hunk.  A bearded punk is more my level.  I fear that W.C. Fields must have smuggled his way into my gene pool in some way that has left me with his nose.  My eyes are fine, if slightly piggy, and my mouth is full – although not quite full enough to hide my teeth.  Pretty normal, all things considered.  I am no oil painting, but I don’t altogether look as though I’ve been through a mincer.

Let’s be honest here, I suspect that there are days when even George Clooney is no George Clooney.  We all have good days and we all have bad days – although the ratios vary.  Everybody would like to be better looking than they are.  I wonder how many people actually look into a mirror and think that they look anything better than ok?  Even Donald Trump must have insecurities*.

Anyway, all I’m trying to say after Monday’s downbeat appraisal, is that I don’t want you to think that I have walked face first into a fan.  Please don’t worry, I am resigned to what leers back at me from the morning mirror.  I am a normal looking bloke (providing you don’t set the bar too high), but realistic.  I will never be James Bond – even a very old one – and my family love me just as I am… providing I keep the pillow case on my head. 

*Stop Press: He doesn’t – and if he did, they’d be somebody else’s.

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4 thoughts on “Upon (Further) Reflection

  1. You are right about DT. Most horrible creature on the planet. Oh why will he not GO AWAY!
    Today’s photograph a much better selection. For a long time now I’ve thought it best to just walk around with a bag over my head and no one would even notice, but then they wouldn’t notice without the bag either. Who cares what we look like anyway?

    Liked by 1 person

  2. After the first wild flush of youth I think we all tend to look in the mirror and resign ourselves to the decline. Plus, I do know an oil painting I strikingly resemble; Alice Neel’s ‘Untitled.’

    Liked by 2 people

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