she had come

She hadn’t always been like this. Once, she had danced in the aisle of the opera house, fallen, and then twisted upward like a fast-growing swirly oak tree. The people around her, applauded. But that was once. In fact, it was when she was five. Now she was fifty one. If she fell in the aisle now, it would take a few minutes to untangle her limbs and she would have to use the arms of the seats to leverage her way back up. And she would probably say oomph and embarrass her teenage children.

She hadn’t always been annoyed. She had been one of those women who hosted an annual party where the whole neighborhood was invited. People would say, I don’t know how you do it. Now, she hates people. Well, hate is a strong word. Her mother used to say that when she used the word hate. She is not fond of people. Well, she is fond, but it’s all so tiresome and full of to do lists, and having to negotiate with her husband, and having to have a positive outlook. These things do not come naturally anymore, although they once did.

She had been the kind of woman who danced on the beach, and went to drum circles, and wore a tiara for graduation, chunky heels, and slips as dresses. She was the kind of woman who looked damn OK after having two kids. Now, she sagged, had spidery red veins all up and down her legs, was enamored of the people who invented sparkling wine in a can, and replied out loud, back to the T.V. news anchors when they said goodnight. Good night to you too, Nora O’Donnell!

And there was this other thing that was confusing. Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror naked, she saw beauty, like real full beauty. And, for perhaps the first time in her life, she saw and felt, in herself, sexy. She understood that outwardly, from others’ perspectives, she was probably less sexy than she had ever been. This inward/outward vision was very strange to her. She knew that she might be the only person in the world who thought she was sexy now, whereas before, in her earlier years, she had known others thought she was sexy, but she had not felt it about herself. Now, she was the only one who thought so. Really truly beautiful and sexy.

Her broad shoulders cut down to her clavicles like an icy smooth glacier. Her breasts sagged, but small, sagged in a way that were perky-ish – from a front view, anyway. Her belly was now slightly menopausal and curved outward, like the bellies she saw in the Renoir posters she remembers from her friend’s high school bedroom, supple and romantic. Her waist was still a bit smaller than her hips. Her butt huge, thighs huger, were something to hang on to, grabbable. Sometimes, she grabbed them herself and hung on tight. Her lower legs were simply divine, you just had to ignore a few bulging veins – but those only sprang forward from a certain angle.

How strange, these thoughts! In all this mundanity, and vacuuming, and sitting at her desk, and trips to Target, she could possibly be the most beautiful and sexy she had ever been. She did not want to waste this! How could she capitalize on this moment when her life is just work, housekeeping, chauffeuring teenagers, and sharing stories she read off the internet with her husband, each of them, on their own little screens, oceans apart, but in the same bed? Day after day after day after…

Once, she had been in the dynamic whir of life. Now, she was in the steady hut two three four. Once she had been in the five six seven eight! Now, she was in the three two one. She wanted to blast off. But the countdown just kept repeating, like Groundhog’s Day, three two one, three two one with no blast off. Even climaxing was no longer a blast off. What is the 51-year-old version of coming? Not coming per se, but rather, have come. What is the 51-year-old version of SHE HAS COME? She had been, and she had come, and now SHE WAS HERE!