I look tired. Bags. I’ve never had bags before; always been lucky like that. So this puffy, shadowy situation must be because I am tired. Except, oddly, I am not really tired. And something is happening around my jawline. So, clearly I must be retaining water. And have my eyes got just a tiny bit… smaller? Is that even possible? And my body is different. I want to say fatter, but the scales read the same and my clothes fit the same but they don’t look the same. They hang… otherly. As though someone else is wearing them.
The thing is, I just don’t look like myself. Not the self I have become accustomed to. The self that sometimes looks amusingly rough and occasionally looks gratifyingly OK. The self that I have grown up with. And, much as I assign it to tiredness or weight gain or hormones, it stubbornly refuses to revert to ‘normal’. And so, must I assume that this is new normal? That the sands have shifted.
This is disorientatingly tough stuff. Still me… but not me? Waiting for things to revert and knowing that they won’t. It isn’t that I suddenly have a full beard, deep crows feet and a vast tyre of spread around my centre. But it is a hint of what is to come. This is my face now. And I have who knows how long to get used to this physical self before it shifts once more. Inevitability is a strange beast. And so I’m not going to think about this too much. I’m just going to try new lipsticks and new trouser shapes and see if they suit this self. I’m going to treat it as an experiment. I’m going to try to make it… interesting.