I started a converation with two young students while we waited to get our cupcakes from the new bakery. “How old do you think we look?” the girls asked, giggling in unison. They were delighted when I told them I thought they were a couple of years older than they actually were.
Forty years from now, they probably won’t be delighted with the same answer.
Why do we want to look older when we’re young and younger as we age? Why aren’t we content to look great for our age rather than younger than the calendar says?
What does fifty look like anyway? Or seventy? If you’re lucky enough to get to be ninety, do you want to look eighty? Can’t wrinkles be as beautiful as etchings or considered signs of character?