Evidence that becoming 50 has its downsides.

As a joyful celebration of my 50th birthday, I thought I'd post one of my bestest favouritest poems which is by Sylvia Plath. It's from the point of view of a woman's mirror, into which she looks each day and ... well ... let's just say, it's not Sophia Loren looking back. I love the ending of this poem. It's like a horror movie.
I always find it best to let the mirror steam up before I look in it.
Mirror
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, …
I always find it best to let the mirror steam up before I look in it.
Mirror
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, …