I pulled my sweater off with my back to the mirror. My sunglasses slid off the top of my head and I threw them on the pile I’d amassed in the corner: jacket, messy handbag, cell phone. The skull motif on my turquoise scarf looked up at me slyly. They knew, those skulls.

I didn’t need to look in the mirror. I knew too.

Absently, I scratched a dry patch on my hand as I leaned against the wall. My back hurt. I shifted a little on the balls of my feet. Did I need to pee again? I decided to ignore the muted signals my bladder was misfiring to my brain. It was less than an hour since I’d gone.

“Alright honey. Let’s take a look!” She was warm and friendly. Her hair fell in beautiful, black tresses around her face. She beamed with her eyes as well as her mouth.

I turned toward her and gave her a tired smile back. I glimpsed my reflection in profile. I think I heard the skulls snigger.

She sized me up without judgment or a tape measure. I think that’s the secret. “You are definitely in the wrong size. We are going to get you up!” And with that she left, in a flurry of promise and hope.

I turned toward the mirror.

I don’t know when it happened. The aching back. The tired feet. The hands that feel dry no matter how much cream I rub into them. My grandmother’s hands. Long knobbly fingers. Covered in lines.

Was it overnight? A dark quiet night, some time between turning 40 last year and 41 next week? I don’t remember that I woke up on any particular morning in the last 12 months feeling and looking different, older, sweatier, grayer. No matter how much I sleep, the eyes that look back at me in the mirror always resemble an ancient raccoon.

I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know when I started to smell like a teenager in between showers, or when I decided I need a bunch of new bras because mine were suddenly way too small. Puberty for 40-somethings? I don’t remember the details from the first time around, but I do know there is little to control and way too much to relinquish!

“Ookaay hon, what do you think of these?” Beautiful lace in cream and black, pale pink and purple beckoned from her outstretched hands. The delicate colors took my breath away, but it was the wide satin straps and underwire that I was after.

No matter how confidently time marches all over my body, my boobs were not going to be casualties of this hormonal battle!

My hair turns gray when nobody is looking. And every time I sneeze or laugh too hard… well, you know. It’s bewildering and confusing, when and how this happens. In the dead of night or right before my eyes.

I looked at myself once in the mirror. Smiled a real smile, and gave my new friend a big, grateful hug. I gathered up my belongings and shoved that scarf deep into my bag.

I had new underwire. No need for anything else.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt, “No one was around when it happened.” Hosted by Kristi from Finding Ninee, Lisa (this week’s sentence thinker-upper) from Flingo, and Jessica from Ramblings of an add mommy. My wise friend, Samantha, told me, “Our boobs deserve the best.” She’s right.