Tired

Every once in a while I leave the house without looking at myself in the mirror. At some point I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in something shiny. Have you ever looked at yourself and not recognized the person staring at you, not one bit? The eyes, once bright green, are faded with blue-black rims and covered with weighty spider webs that pull the lids down. The redness, too, from the lips is now a shady blush. The once sun-kissed cheeks and freckles now appear moon-slapped. And everything is deeper, more pronounced than I remember. This can’t be my face.

But I look again. What seems to have happened is that Tired has finally moved in. He’s visited before, usually just a stopover, after late nights or trauma. But this time he seems to have brought all his bags and is planning a long, if not, permanent stay. Tired lay his bags in the tight storage area under my eyes and has turned off the lights to conserve energy. The luggage is heavy, pulling the skin there further away from where it belongs.

Maybe it’s just leftover makeup that didn’t come off when I washed my face. But scrubbing doesn’t help, and it’s been two days since I wore mascara – two showers and washing my face should have rid that. No, it seems the darkness is tattooed under my lashes. Concealer helps. Smiling, though, seems to accentuate the baggage.

Maybe it’s part of growing up, this reinvention of your facial structure. Maybe there’s a reason adults learn to appreciate the bitterness of coffee; children don’t quite understand it yet, don’t need to taste the things they know, need the caffeine to keep them awake.

I suppose coffee, along with moisturizer and sleep, is the answer, but it seems that I should just wear makeup more often. Or maybe not recognizing yourself is ok. Maybe rediscovery can actually be invigorating. Maybe it’s invigorating enough to chase away Tired, show him he’s not welcome here for the moment.