The painful truth

A day off today, and a warm and sunny one at that, so there was never a doubt that I would be out and about. And there were cuties around, too, mostly of the touristy variety, given that it was a school day, as I meandered through town. At lunchtime, I was wandering around Covent Garden, often a reasonable eye candy venue, but rather than the boys I was hoping to admire, I was confronted with an altogether different sight. For some unaccountable reason, a number of large mirrored panels have been installed at one end of the central former market building, and the reflection I saw in one of them really brought me up short. I'm used, of course, to seeing my face in the bathroom mirror at home on a daily basis, but that's the only mirror in the flat, so when I saw the full, 'as others see me' view, I was immediately disheartened. I have few illusions about myself - I've always been fat and unattractive, even as a child - but to see how old and tired I look, and, perhaps even more, how sullen and resentful, was very much an unpleasant surprise. Every picture tells a story, of course, and, thinking about it, all of the preceding adjectives are completely apposite - the 'physiological' ones are inescapable, but the 'psychological' ones are even more telling. I am resentful of the hand that I've been dealt, and of my abject inability to make anything of it. And I'm sullen because I know that I can never have what I most want - what conceivable boy, even one who might be open to a relationship with someone older, would want anything to do with an ogre like me? They say the truth hurts - and they're right, in spades.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B