SATIRE

Mirrors and Aging

Insight from One Tired Bitch

No amount of Botox can bring my zest for squirrels back. (Image from author)

It’s me again. The real me. Not some filtered photo to make my fur look like it did back when I ate my humans’ furniture.

Confession Time

That other photo? The one you saw a few weeks ago? That wasn’t me. It was my much younger brother, Bailey.

Bailey, sweet, dumb and fertile. (Image taken by author)

Oh, the SHAME

Forgive me, readers. I’m so embarrassed. I need to attend one of those 12 step programs — not for alcohol (I’ve no idea why you prefer this over sniffing someone’s ass, but to each their own) but for aging:

Step 1: We admitted we were powerless over vanity— that our lives had become unmanageable.

The Evil Witch

The Evil Witch is the mirror. It mocks me each time I walk by with my bad hip. No amount of Puppy Chow can bring back the warm brown fur of youth. And every time I catch myself in the looking glass, I’m taunted by another swath of white fur.

The Mirror doesn’t stop her evil there. No — she shows me my eyes, once large and welcoming like a new day, now shrunken in like recessed-lighting from…