THOSE ARE NOT HIGHLIGHTS 

By Patricia Maxwell 

Maybe I don’t look like me anymore. 

That thought crossed my mind the other morning while my phone hesitated a few extra seconds  trying to unlock with Face ID. 

Just long enough to wonder if even my phone wasn’t quite sure who I was. It unlocks eventually, of course. 

But the pause was noticeable. 

Like it’s thinking about it. Deciding. 

Around this same time I’ve noticed conversations have begun to feel a little like charades. Faces are easy. 

I recognize them instantly. 

But the names… 

“You know the guy from that movie…” 

Pause. 

“The one with… oh what’s her name… she’s married to…” 

More clues. 

“He was in that other thing… the one where…” 

By the time I’ve worked my way down the entire chain of clues, I realize I’ve lost the reason. What was the first part of the conversation again? 

Lost. 

Oy. 

Again. 

At this point I’ve learned not to panic. 

I simply reach for my phone and ask Siri.

And somewhere along the way the conversation drifts into movies, series, television. So I assume everyone is watching Landman. 

At least everyone I know is. 

Some days I can really relate to Billy Bob Thornton in that show. 

Problem after problem keeps coming for him. 

And he just keeps going. 

Season two, episode four is a must-watch. 

Especially the scene after the funeral. 

His daughter leans in: 

“It’s a trap, Neil.” 

By then our conversation has moved on. 

Doctors. 

Cardiologists. 

Dermatologists. 

Orthopedists. 

Referrals passed around the table with the seriousness once reserved for restaurant  recommendations. 

And now neurologists. 

That one enters the conversation a little more quietly. 

A few mornings later I was standing in front of the mirror when another realization arrived. The monochrome color of my hair has made its decision. 

Those are not highlights. 

Looking at myself there, my mind drifted back to Landman again. 

Watching that show, it’s impossible not to notice the beauty and boundless energy of Michelle  Randolph or the body of Ali Larter. 

For a moment I caught myself wishing for that again.

And there it was. 

The trap. 

Not getting older. 

The hope that maybe I could get a little of forty-five back. A cream. A treatment. A kiss and a promise. 

While sixty-seven stood right there in the mirror. 

I need to make peace with her. 

Be kind to her. 

Give her some space. 

Sixty-seven only lasts a year. 

Just like sixty-six did. 

Just like sixty-eight will. 

Each one as long as the last. 

And the next. 

Until there isn’t a next. 

I see that differently now. 

My husband is twelve years ahead of me. 

Family and friends I thought would be here are gone. 

Time isn’t theoretical anymore. 

This is my turn to be sixty-seven. 

I don’t want to miss it. 

Somewhere in my high school yearbook there is probably a line that says: She will never grow up. 

At the time it sounded like a promise. 

Looking back, it may have been more of a misunderstanding.

Apparently I did grow up. 

It just took longer than anyone expected. 

Including me. 

Even if my phone still needs an extra second to confirm it. 

I’m starting to recognize myself. 

still curious.