Age.  The paradoxical demon.  Humans struggle not to die – to grow older.  We drive safely, take vitamins, get medical check-ups, have safe sex, avoid dark alleys and unlit parking lots.  And then we struggle not to grow older.  We drive fast, take vitamins, go to the gym, take up new hobbies, dream of unsafe sex, hang out in unlit rooms longing to rendezvous in dark alleys.  

We are destined to fail at one or the other.

I am well into the period of staring into the mirror and scrutinizing the lines of my aging face.  In my past life as a secondary educator, I spent almost every day with teenagers. Classes and hallways packed full of American Beautiesand Graduates, youthful minds with perfect bodies, unlined faces, and indeterminate futures.  And each year, I would return three-hundred and sixty-five days older to face the perpetual adolescence that occupied my world.  Seniors begetting freshmen, to replenish and sustain the growingly starker contrast.

Interestingly, never did I want to change places, not even as the wrinkles deepened or the skin sagged, for fear that I might travel a different route and arrive at a lesser destination.  That my mind might not be as energized, my memories not as poignant, my relationships not as profound.  So I secretly appreciated the spanning difference, embraced the separation of youth and age.  The depth and vitality of my experiences forged a path wrought equally with pain and beauty that was mine uniquely.  

I used to wonder when I would reach the point that I was no longer attractive.  Would it come by degrees or would I suddenly wake up one morning to find that I was no longer noticed?  I cannot pinpoint the moment the answer came, but it is with me now:  beauty never leaves.  Instead, we wizen to the point that we see beyond the lines we used to scrutinize, the receding hairline we once loathed, the dulling eyes that were once bright. We see truer beauty – the scar that reminds us of an adventure, the crooked smile that we can share without ever diminishing the supply, the weathered face that advertises we have lived.  

And I’m not sure if it was gradual or a forgotten epiphany, but older age has released me from the bonds of desiring superficial attractiveness and gifted me with seeing beauty in places and faces that I never saw it before. Turns out, we are not destined to fail at all if when we grow old, we redefine what it means to be young.  

*I chose these pictures of me with my grandchildren to celebrate the gap between their youthfulness and my aging. It’s beautiful!

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