It never happened. I’m still bewildered by the things that bewildered me when I was twenty. I’m still insecure about the things I was insecure about then. No matter how much I learn—books, experience, observation—I don’t know any more than I did then. I’m still twenty. I’m still waiting for grace.
So now I understand Oil of Olay. People, especially we feminists, natter about how we should honor our age and not be so worried about looking attractive to men because we look fine just as we are, and we don’t men to validate us, yadda yadda, but Oil of Olay isn’t about looking sexy (ie. young). It’s about that grace we were supposed to earn with maturity.
Somehow I missed it. If I can set the clock back far enough to recapture myself, maybe this time I can figure out what I missed the first time through. Maybe it’s just too disconcerting to look in the mirror and see that my face doesn’t match my age.
We don’t cling to youth because youth is better, we do it because we never got there. We never got it. We never got grace. No matter how much we learn or how old we grow, we’ll always be children who believe in adulthood and long to get there someday. And if we have to be children, we might as well act our age whether it’s eighteen or twenty or twelve. And we might as well look our age as well. Why go gentle into that good night when we can rage against the dying of the light?