The Beauty of (Old) Age... or whatever he said.

"Old age is no place for sissies."

It is a well known fact that I am not good, at all, at using public transportation. I very seldom take the bus. That only happens like.... ones in a blue moon. My car was otherwise engaged, and I was planning on having a glass of wine, so the other day I took the bus. Quite pleasant, actually, I have to say. All of us passengers sat there with each our own mobile, shuffling away on the screen.

As I was preoccupied giving the impression I was consentrating doing something important, the bus made a stop.
I only sensed it as she sat down next to me. The smell of synthetic strawberry hit me, and I could hear her chewing. Eagerly.

She sat there, next to me, on the bus and smelled like chewing gum, 15-16-years old, perhaps. A sorry attempt on adding years using heavy make up. I am sure bouncers have fallen for it before. Maybe a false ID has backed up her lie.

I smiled at her, but as I took in her appearance I hid my smile so she wouldn't see it change. Smiling to myself I thought about how her youth was given away by her roundish cheeks, nervous hands pulling at the sleeves, the nailpolish lumpy from the too slow and careful brushstrokes. Her entire being was oozing from puberty. No eyeliner in the world can change that. Nor can a miracle bra.

There is a spark in young people, an excitement at the threshold of adulthood, yet holding a contempt for maturity.
The want to do it myself, which has been inherent ever since able to pull oneself up and stand on their own is still strong. They have not yet realized, let alone experienced, we were always there to catch them and comfort when they fell.

I am turning 44 next month. My youth has passed, I have been an adult for the longest of times. And I am well on my way into maturity. I am mature enough to realize I have been overweight for almost half my life. It will not disappear just because I want it to. I just have to want to lose weight bad enough to do something about it.

The young girl next to me knows nothing about the everyday struggles the future holds in store for her. She can still charme her way through life, without being scarred.

You need to have a heart as cold as stone not to be charmed by youth. The problem is: charme is about all there is.
Charme is a breath of freshness, but over time it really isn't very entertaining. It takes a lot of work listening to, and watch. It drains me of my still fragile, earned virtues, which my beginning maturity has granted me.
I would much rather be trapped in an elevator with someone old with personality.

I am ageing. I am losing muscles, subcutaneous fat and firmness. My body is decaying, regardless how well I ignore the fact. I have become more polished and my edges are not as sharp as they used to be. I have now endurance, stamina rather than speed, I have the ability to focus. And so my expressions of emotions are not as outgoing as they perhaps, once upon a time, were.

But then, age has brought me something I cherish a lot more than all of my lost features put together: complexity. I have more strings to play, more facets to show and shine from. I recognize and embrace more feelings and emotions in both myself and others. I am more forgiving. I know how to take people for what they are without taking it personal. I can be generous, with myself, my time, my resources without expecting anything in return.
There is a depth I find in myself, which I didn't have before, but which now vibrate with intensity through my entire person.
This is what makes maturity and age so much more exciting than youth, but you need to reach the stage yourself before you can really appreciate it.

And since I believe that, it is ever so annoying that this young kiddo, Ashton Kutcher, said it this well: