I live in Manhattan, and am surrounded by gorgeous women of all ages. But my eye gravitates towards those younger than me, who can still traverse the city streets in 7″ heels, completely oblivious to foot pain. Their wrinkle-free skin holds the dewy blush of infinite confidence. The world truly is their oyster, or at least that is what I choose to project onto them as they stride down the street, smartphone in hand, laughing jauntingly on their way to Thursday night happy hour.
I was her once. But alas, no more. At a time long prior to now, could I ever really imagine that one day I would be 57? Approaching 60? It was much too far away, and in my mind, it was not going to happen. I would stay stuck in whatever year I happened to be immersed in at the moment.
I am ashamed to admit it, but there are times when envy for “their” current youth smacks right up against wistfulness for “my” long lost youth. At those precarious moments, I take gleeful pleasure in singing to myself a la Audrey Hepburn in “My Fair Lady,” “Just you wait ‘enry ‘iggins, just you wait.”
That small, petty part of me just needs to secretly and quietly cackle:
“Ha, ha, ha. One day, you flawless flexible soul of youth, will be here – on the right side of 50. And you’ll also wonder where it all went, and how did it go so fast?”