For years now, mirrors have been telling my story with increasing honesty. The supple skin of yesteryear is rapidly developing the patina of age.
This patina is not the graceful kind. There’s no hint at the artful brush strokes of a Rubens or Rembrandt. Blemishes once faint are now promenading in bold relief. They confirm the prophetic word of those old black-and-white Reader’s Digest ads, which bemoaned “Those Horrid Age Spots.” Big deal, I thought as a kid. Yet now prophecy has been fulfilled. My decades-old skin proves it. And, frankly, I suppose it is no big deal.