As I was waiting for the next city metro train today, I watched people. I always watch people, but there was more thought to it today. I saw a young lady, maybe very early 20s, and realized I'd never look like that again. Then I looked closer & realized that though she WAS young, she wasn't particularly pretty.
It was one of a set of sudden, run-on thoughts. It was that age-old wonder: is youth beautiful by virtue of its youth, no matter what, & is it necessarily more attractive than maturity?
At the dentist yesterday, after a particularly nasty nearly 2 hours in the chair to have a crown mold made, I stood at the reception counter to PAY for this honor. I remarked that I'd never, ever had problems with my teeth until I hit 40. One day I was 39, and all the parts worked relatively well, and the next day I was 40 and -- POOF!! -- things just started to fall apart. How is it that this happens? What IS it about that number?
Lest anyone think I'm feeling down about all this, I rush to add that despite all the thought, I find that I'm much happier in my skin (even the dry stuff) today than I was when I was as young as that girl I saw earlier. I understand the process better. I see it as a true and honest evolution. I know my part, and I delight in it.
I GET it now. And I understand. I recall another woman I saw this morning. She was over 40, together, spiffy-looking, confident, and yes, she WAS pretty.