There is a program on television that shows this masked magician revealing all of the secrets of the 'big dogs' in the world of prestidigitation and illusion.
The purpose of his show is to illustrate that what we think we see isn't what we are seeing at all.
Kind of like seeing our reflection in the fun house mirrors, that wavy 12 foot tall image isn't really me.
Or that really extra wide image that fills the warped surface to create the illusion of being the size of the hot air balloon across the fair grounds waiting for passengers hoping to get a ride over the countryside.
Except that those mirrors have all been purchased by the retail industry for use in the ladies dressing rooms and changing areas of every major store.
I truly hate the fact that my rear end looks more like a shelf protruding from my backside than the non-existent back side of my youth.
When they tell us to "sit all the way back in your chair", I am loathe to tell them that I am as far back as my buttocks will allow me to go without changing my posture to resemble elbow macaroni.
All I want to know is what happened?
I used to wear Levi's button-down 501 jeans from the boy's section because I had no butt to worry over. There simply wasn't anything there. And the flat stomach that accompanied it was really great for slipping into those ultra skinny faded jeans that were just so comfortable and soft.
And I recall worrying about how I couldn't gain any weight when I was younger.
Oh, to enjoy a few of THOSE days again.
When did I become an old lady?
I have a reasonable expectation that, at any moment now, the magician will pull off his big reveal to show the audience that instead of this 'Sta-puf' marshmallow body, I am really his glamorous assistant who is toned, tanned and taut.
I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille... any day now...
But Mr. DeMille is dead and gone and turned to the windswept dust that obscures the skies over Hollywood and the magician has gone home to reveal his own paunch and a sadly balding head that is decorously covered with a cheap toupee.
So where does that leave me? No mirror is taking care of this bulge and the magic wand is lying limply exposed with flowers shooting out of one end, it's magical properties done and gone.
WHERE IS MY MIRROR OF PERFECTION????
I feel cheated.
But, and there is a big butt here, I hope to one day be able to create that magical reveal. That girl is out there somewhere in the misty and murky smoke that surrounds the tricks of the trade. I just have to summon the right words that contain the power to pull of the change.
I hate those words.
They are not thrilling like 'abracadabra' or 'ah lah peanut butter sandwiches'. Nor do they summon the excitement of 'presto!'. Instead they are much more hard on the ears.
Laps. As in those with feet on the road, astride a bike or in a pool.
Diet. As in making better choices every day, not some hackneyed popular panacea illustrated by an airbrushed model in a monthly magazine.
Stretching. As in the effort to increase both flexibility and enhance movement in the body, not the kind involving the cross table grab for the last buttery-good crescent roll at supper.
Sweat. As in dripping off my face in buckets while my evil Assassin dog checks over her shoulder to decide which death provoking maneuver will cause me the greatest suffering and drippage.
Nope, none of those sound as nice as magic words.
But then, after seeing the show about the magician's secrets, I have come to realize his magic isn't that spectacular either. Those lovely assistants pay a pretty heavy price to make Mr. Wonderful look good. And he soaks up the credit for illusory moments meant to tease, confuse and bewilder.
I may have issues to deal with, but this guy takes the cake! His mirrors are meant to confuse and do an excellent job of just that. Sadly, when they show just how the tricks are accomplished, I know I have stayed WAY too long at the fair.
There is nothing spectacular here. Just work in disguise.
So I am left to contemplate the sins of past life choices and circumstances as each day is simply an adventure in pain.
There won't be days that don't hurt. That just isn't possible. The secret here, just like the magician's mystical appearances, is to make it look easy when really it's not.
I'll be on my bike and mowing the yard today for the round of exercises that I need to complete.
No smoke and mirrors will be available for either the job of mowing or for what passersby on the road get to see. I am what I am as I am. You can always speed up if the vision before you isn't one you wanted to see.
Should someone happen to possess the ability to allow the reflection to pay the price while the outside package remains youthful and willowy...
oh, no!
I'd better pass on that. It didn't work out too well for Dorian Grey and I doubt the results would be much more satisfactory for my wish.
Time to sweat, people.
And you can't do that with a mirror.
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