“You’ve got saggy skin!” Thats what my sixty-year-old mate, Peter, blurted out across the living room, giving my side a firm pinch in front of our friends. I fetched the old mirror from the hallway and held it up to show him just how much of him was sagging.
It was over the waistband of my skirt, where the fabric tugged a bit when I sat down. He did it right in front of everyone. Loud. Brazen.
“Peter, whats up?” I tried to gently shoo his hand away, like swatting an autumn fly, but he wouldnt give up. His fingers, thick and stubby as overcooked sausages, pinched again, not enough to hurt but nearly enough to bring tears to my eyes.
“Take a look!” he called to our neighbour, George, who was halfway to attacking his herring with a fork. “I keep telling Emily here, Stop muching on bread before bed-time, but she just says, Its my age. Hormones, you know.”
Peter roared with laughter, his belly jiggling with each chortle, threatening to pop the last button on his Sunday shirt.
“What hormones? Its pure laziness, thats all,” he announced, scanning the room with misplaced pride.
“Peter, pack it in,” I whispered, feeling a flush creeping up my neck and cheeks.
George laughed uneasily, studying his plate as if mayonnaise swirls had suddenly become high art. His wife, Sarah, deliberately looked away, busying herself with her napkin, pretending nothing was wrong.
“Pack it in?” Peter was clearly enjoying the attention. “Cant I speak the truth? Youve got saggy skin!”
He poked my side again, like testing the readiness of dough. “Look, right here, it hangs over in a rolljust like a Shar Pei. Not very pretty, Emily.”
The room sank into a sticky, uncomfortable hush. Only the fridge rattled from the kitchen.
“I only say it because I care,” he declared, sitting back and folding his arms like a pompous headmaster. “A woman should look after herself. Its natures lawkeeps the husband happy.”
I stared at him, really looked at himperhaps properly for the first time in thirty years of marriage.
Sixty-two years old. A stomach looming over his trousers like a thundercloud on the horizon. Two chins rolling into his neck, straight down to rounded shoulders with hardly a muscle in sight. A bald patch glistening in the overheated air, shiny as a buttered pancake.
“So, pleasing to the eye, you say?” I heard myself reply, oddly calm, as if a heavy lever had noisily locked into place inside me.
No more shame, no more smoothing things over, no more patience. Everything felt clear as glass.
“Of course!” Peter thumped his chest, prideful as anything. “Just look at mekeeping myself in shape!”
“What shapes that then?” I continued, eyes locked on him.
“Manly!” Hed straightened up as much as his spine allowed. “Bit of exercise every morning, swing the dumbbells, keeps me toned.”
He tried to pull his stomach in for show, but all that happened was a faint wobble that fell right back over his belt.
“A man ought to be an eagle, not a sack of potatoes,” he finished with grand flourish.
“Reallyan eagle?” I rose slowly from the table, taking care not to make a scene.
“Where you off to, in a mood? Come off it, Em! No need to take offence at the truth! You should be shedding pounds, not pulling a face!”
I went out to the hallway, where it smelled of old coats and shoe polish. On the wall hung our hefty old mirror, the one from my parents house, back when we were young and trim. I took it down, heavy devil it was, five kilos at least, biting into my palms. But it felt light as air.
I returned, holding it with both hands like a medieval shieldor a judge’s gavel. The guests froze, Sarahs mouth half-open, mid-bite of pickled gherkin.
“Peter, get up,” I said softly yet firmly enough to leave no question of arguing.
“Why?” he said, genuinely baffled, but he stood when he saw I wasnt joking. “Are we dancing now or what?”
“No,” I stepped close, catching the whiff of onions and spirits, “We’re going to admire the eagle.”
I thrust the heavy mirror right under his nose, making him flinch.
“Hold that.”
He grabbed the frame, a bit shocked at the weight.
“What on earth are you doing, Emily?” His sure voice flickered, first note of doubt creeping in.
“Look,” I ordered, as if scolding a mischievous cat. “Look properly.”
He stared at his reflection, uncertain, hands trembling ever so slightly.
“I see myself, so what?”
“Now look lower,” I jabbed the glass with a finger, right at his sweat-soaked shirt. “See?”
“What am I supposed to be seeing?” He tried to maintain his dignity.
“Your skins sagging!” I declared, copying his earlier tone. “It’s not just hanging, Peter, its spread right out.”
“Em!” he tried to lower the mirror, face reddening.
“No, keep holding,” I pressed down on the frame, forcing him to look. “That above your beltis that iron abs? Or what?”
George snorted, stifling a laugh with his fist.
“No, dear, thats your life raft,” I carried on pitilessly. “In case we start to drown in all that pudge.”
Peter turned so red he looked likely to burst out of his shirt.
“And these on your hips?” I pointed to where his side bulged from his trousers. “Are those eagles wings? Or more like a piglet before Christmas?”
“That’s enough!” he hissed, squirming. “People are watchingwhy are you humiliating me?”
“Let them watch!” I raised my voice over his hissing. “It was truth you wanted, wasnt it? If youre so keen on beauty in this house, lets have a proper look at yours!”
I stepped back for a fuller view.
“Lets examine your aesthetics, Peter. Turn sideways to the light.”
“Im not” he tried, but then fell silent.
“Turn!” I snapped, and the cutlery on the table rattled.
Obedient as if hypnotised, he awkwardly shuffled, turning so his profile faced the mirror. Not exactly the figure of ancient Greek sculptures. And the neckor lack thereof.
“See that triple roll on your neck?” My voice was calm, clinical. “Thats Shar Pei, Peter. Pure-breed.”
Sarah had buried her face in her napkin, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“And under your chin?” I didn’t let up. “That wattlewhat are you storing in there for winter, mackerel?”
“Im a man!” Peter whined, in a tone not half as convincing as he must’ve hoped. “Its allowed for me!”
“Oh, it’s allowed?!” I let out a short, cold laugh. “So, if after two kids and thirty years at the stove I get a single roll, Im lazy, Im shameful, but if you havent lifted anything heavier than the TV remote in a decade, wobbling like a jelly, youre in your prime?”
I snatched the mirror from himhis arms looked tired. He stood in the middle of the room, shoulders slumped, shirt collar collapsed, his arrogance gone like onion peel.
I saw him as he was: just an older, paunchy man finally realising the emperor had no clothesand none too happy about it.
“Sit,” I said, standing the mirror against the cabinet. “And eat.”
He slumped onto his chair, which let out a long groan.
“And I never want to hear another word about my figure,” I said, redoing my hair in the mirrors reflection.
I turned to him and added quietly, “Or Ill hang this mirror right opposite your seat, and you can eat dinner every night staring at your pelican.”
George was roaring now, not caring if Peter was offended. Sarah was dabbing away tears of laughter.
Peter silently prodded a tiny pickled mushroom with his fork, chewing with downcast eyes, trying to shrink himself.
That suffocating tension that hangs after a family row? Gone. Instead, the air felt fresh and light, as if someone just cracked open all the windows on a smoky night.
I reclaimed my seat as lady of the house and served myself a monstrous slice of Victoria spongethe very one Id baked for half the day yesterday and meant not to touch to “keep my waistline”.
The icing oozed, the sponge crackled under my fork.
“Em, pass me a slab too, big as you like,” Sarah said, sticking her plate out. “Stuff the diet, you only live once.”
“And me,” winked George, pouring himself some squash. “Reckon Ive got a pair of wings on me too, better feed em.”
Peter glanced at me with a sort of newfound, cautious respect. Then at the cake, then at the mirror, which still sat by the wall, silent witness to his undoing.
In the bottom corner, his socked feet showed: one black, one navy, not even a matching pair.
Some eagle, at home.
“Sorry, Em,” he muttered at the tablecloth. “Didnt mean it. My mouth ran off with me…”
“Eat, Peter, eat,” I said, thoroughly enjoying the taste of cake and custard. “Youll need strength.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“For when you’re hefting your dumbbells,” I smiled. “You’re the athlete, remember?”
Evening carried onchats about the price of groceries, the allotment, the weather. But something had shifted in our little kingdom. My “model husband” had lost all his bluster and become an ordinary manone with plenty of fears, weaknesses, and folds of his own.
And you know what? That cake was bloody delicious. The best Id had in twenty years.
The mirror stayed in the room. Every time Peter walks past, he tenses his belly and squares his shoulders reflexively.
And not once since has he dared mention my “saggy skin”. I suspect hes wary of waking the pelican.
Looking back, maybe the real lesson is simple: before you judge others, take a long, honest look at your own reflection.
