“Your Skin Is Sagging!” — My 60-Year-Old Husband Pinched My Side in Front of Our Guests, So I Brought a Mirror and Showed Him What’s Sagging on His Own Body

Youve got sagging skin! Arthur, now past sixty, pinched my side before the guests, and so I fetched the mirror to show him his own.

It happened an age ago, on a dusky October evening. Arthuralways prone to bluster after his third glass of home-brewed damson ginsuddenly reached over and, with a good-natured show of authority, pinched the bit of flesh at my waist.

Right above the waistband of my skirtwhere the fabric, when I sat, was always pulled just a little tight.

He did it right in front of our guests, loudly and without so much as a thought for shame.

Arthur, what do you think youre doing? I tried gently to brush away his hand, as youd wave off a bothersome autumn wasp, but he was undeterred.

Those stubby fingers, rather like overcooked Cumberland sausages, pinched me againthis time wounding my pride far more than my skin.

Look at this! he exclaimed, turning to our neighbour Geoffrey, who sat across from him and had just speared a pickled herring on his fork. I keep telling herNora, lay off the sticky bun before bed! And she says, Arthur, its my age, its hormones!

Arthur laughed, and his stomach wobbled in time with his chuckles, the buttons on his Sunday shirt visibly strained.

Hormones? He snorted, surveying the table with satisfaction. Nonsense, if you ask me! Its good old-fashioned laziness, thats all.

Arthur, pack it in, I muttered between clenched teeth, feeling a tell-tale flush creeping up my neck and cheeks.

Geoffrey gave a nervous chuckle, fixing his eyes on his plate as if examining the way the mayonnaise mingled with the cucumber was the greatest marvel of the evening.

His wife, Alice, tactfully diverted her gaze, fiddling with her napkin as if nothing at all were happening.

Whats wrong with saying the truth? Arthur pressed on, emboldened by his own sense of performance. Youve got sagging skin!

He prodded at my side again, as though testing the readiness of dough for rise.

Right here, its all rolling over, look! Like a Shar Peis foldsoh, Nora, dont kid yourself.

A heavy, sticky silence fellin which only the old fridge in the kitchen could be heard humming to itself.

I do this for you, you know, he went on, settling smugly into his chair, arms folded over his chest. A wife should take care of herself, make her man proud to look at herits simply the natural order.

I looked at him.

Properly, as if seeing him for the first time in our thirty years of marriage.

Sixty-two years old.

A belly hanging over trousers like a thundercloud threatening the horizon.

A second chin flowing into a neck and then slumping into slouched shoulders, not a muscle to be found.

A shining bald pate gleaming with warmth and a hearty meal under the light of our aging chandeliermuch like a buttered crumpet at teatime.

Pleasant to look at, is it? I asked, my voice oddly calm even in my own ears.

Something inside clicked into placea heavy switch thrown with a thunk inside an old lock.

No more embarrassment, no more smoothing things over, no more patient endurance.

Only a pure, glassy clarity remained.

Obviously! Arthur thumped his chest with satisfaction, making a deep, muffled sound. Look at me, I keep in shape!

What shape is that exactly? I enquired, refusing to blink.

A mans shape! He puffed himself up, as far as his back would allow. I do my calisthenics every morning, swing the dumbbells for five minuteskeeps me fighting fit.

He tried to pull in his stomach to show off this supposed fitness.

It didnt go well.

The belly gave a little twitch, shivered, and settled back over the belt buckle, digging halfway into the flesh.

A chap ought to be an eagle, not a sack of spuds, he concluded, delivering his sermon.

An eagle, is it? I rose from the table, slow and deliberate, careful not to overplay my hand.

Where are you off to now? Sulking, are you? he called after me, pouring another glass of gin. Truth hurts, Nora! A bit of dieting wouldnt go amiss for you, you know!

I went out to the dim hallway, scented with old coats and shoe polish.

On the wall hung our old mirrorone handed down from my parents, housed in a heavy, oval, wooden frame. It had watched us grow older and softer over the years.

I took it down, and it weighed heavya good five kilos if it was an ounce. The frame bit into my palms, but I barely felt it.

I marched back to the sitting room, brandishing the mirror before me like a medieval shield.

Or a judges verdict, not open to appeal.

The guests froze, forks aloft. Alices jaw dropped, the piece of pickled gherkin on her fork momentarily forgotten.

Arthur, get up, I said quietly, but with such authority that no one so much as blinked a challenge.

Now what? He looked honestly bewildered. But seeing my serious expression, he dared not argue. All right, Im up. What now, a little dance?

No. I moved close enough to smell onions and gin. We are going to admire the eagle.

I thrust the heavy mirror into his hands, making him flinch at its surprising weight.

What are you on about, Nora? His voice, once so boisterous, faltered with a first quiver of anxiety.

Look, I ordered, the tone reserved for scolding misbehaving cats. Look properly.

He stared, confused, at his own reflectionwobbling slightly in his unsteady grip.

Yes, its me. And what of it?

Now, look lower. I jabbed my finger at the glass, pinpointing his sweaty-shirted torso. See that?

What? He tried to hold his ground.

Thats sagging skin, Arthur! I said, clear and loud, echoing his own tone from moments before. But yours doesnt just sag, it rests.

Nora! He tried to lower the mirror. His face was going bright red.

No, you hold that! I pressed down on the frames edge, forcing him to look. That, above your belt, is that meant to be iron abs?

Geoffrey made a peculiar, snorting noise, stifling a laugh and coughing into his fist.

No, darling, thats a lifebuoy, I went on mercilessly, for when were both in danger of drowning in lard.

Arthurs face was now so crimson he looked ready to pop like an overripe tomato.

And these I pointed at the flabby sides spilling from his waistband. Are these eagles wings? Or little pigs ears, all fattened for the Christmas roast?

Stop it! he hissed, squirming away. People are watchingyoure humiliating me!

Let them watch! I raised my voice over his hissing. Youre the great champion of appearances in this housewell then, lets discuss your aesthetics. Go on, turn to the light.

Im not doing he began, then went silent at my glare.

Turn! I barked, so loudly the silverware rattled.

He shuffled, hypnotised, reluctantly circling to the side.

The mirror showed his profilehardly a sculpture of the Greek gods.

And his neckor rather, the decided lack thereof.

See that triple fold on the back of your neck? I continued with clinical calm. Thats a purebred Shar Pei for you, Arthur. With a pedigree.

Alice wasnt even pretending any moreher face was buried in her napkin, shaking with silent mirth.

And here, beneath your chin? My tone was unforgiving. Is that a pouch? Hiding treats for later, pelican-style?

Im a man! Arthur squeaked feebly, his great argument now pathetic and unconvincing. Its different for me!

Oh, is it? I gave a sharp, cold laugh. So when I, after two children and thirty years at the stove, have just one little roll, its disgraceful, its laziness, and sagging skin! But when you, who hasnt lifted much heavier than the TVs remote in a decade, turn to trembling blancmange, its the picture of manhood?

I whipped the mirror from his hands, which had honestly begun to tremble.

He stood in the centre of that sitting rooma deflated, crushed figure, the top button of his shirt finally snapping and rolling under the table in defeat.

All the self-importance evaporated from his bearing, as thin as the skin on an onion.

The eagle had vanished without a trace.

Before me stood only a rather plump, puzzled old man, who had just been forced to see the emperor truly had no clothes.

And a damn sight too much of him, at that, I thought, not for the first time.

Sit down, I said evenly, resting the heavy mirror against the sideboard. And eat.

He dropped heavily onto the chair, which gave a protesting creak beneath him.

And I dont want another word, not half a word, about my figure again, I said, straightening my hair before the mirror.

I turned to him and added quietly, Or Ill hang this mirror right opposite your seat, so you can watch your pelican every time you eat.

Geoffrey, not bothering to hide his amusement, burst out laughing and wiped the tears from his eyes.

Arthur, properly chastened, picked up a tiny pickled mushroom and chewed in solemn silence, doing his best to look as small as possible.

For the first time in years, the air lost that morose heaviness so often thick after a marital row.

Instead, the room felt airylike someone had finally flung open the window in an old, stuffy parlour and let in an honest, bracing draught.

I took my rightful seatmistress of my own house.

And I reached for a good, indecently large slice of Victoria spongethe very one Id spent half the day baking, rolling the lightest layers, intending not to touch for fear of putting on more.

The cream oozed at the side; the layers crackled beneath my fork.

Nora, pass me a bit tooa generous bit, Alice said quietly, offering her plate. To hell with diets. We have but one life.

And me as well, Geoffrey winked, refilling his glass with raspberry cordial. I think I feel my wings growingbest fuel up.

Arthur glanced up, just briefly catching my eye with a look that for the first time held a hint of wary respect.

Then his eyes dropped to the cake, then flicked to the mirrorstill propped against the wall, forever the silent witness to his defeat.

Reflected at the bottom were his feetone sock black, one navy, nearly purple.

A real house-eagle, to be sure.

Sorry, Nora, he muttered, eyes lowered, voice thick with remorse. Spoke out of turn. Foolish of me.

Eat, Arthur, eat, I said, enjoying a determined forkful of the cake, tasting the custard. Youll need the strength.

He raised an eyebrow in question.

For lifting those dumbbells, of course, I smiled. Youre our athlete, remember?

The evening drifted on, the usual stories about prices, gardens, the weather.

But in the realm of that table, something vital had shifted for good.

My perfect household critic had deflated, turned suddenly, utterly ordinary.

Frailties, fears, and endless folds all revealed.

And do you know?

That cake was damned delicious.

The best Id tasted in twenty years.

The mirror has stayed there ever since. I never put it away.

Now, Arthur, every time he passes it, automatically pulls in his belly and straightens his shoulders.

And as for my sagging skin? He never dared mention it again.

Perhaps hes too afraid to awaken the pelican.