You can absolutely be “sexy” at 73 after having spent your entire existence perfecting your look so that you slightly resemble a 45 year old and yet be completely empty inside. YOU ARE THE MOST GORGEOUS EMPTY BOTTLE ON THE SHELF, SUGAR.
You’ve spent a lifetime, essentially washing and waxing and detailing a vintage car but at some point the engine will no longer run, you sexy beast.
At the end of all of your preening and improving and dolling yourself up you are still going to die.
And that luxury vehicle your soul wears, well yes hunty, it still looks like it just came off the sales lot and that is a fantastic accomplishment isn’t it, to defy nature?
But wouldn’t it be awesome to have driven that machine up the coast before the transmission falls out?
I feel like my scars and my wrinkles and my chins and blemishes and wounds are proof that I have lived a little while. I have done things and seen stuff and gotten hurt and sick and tired and survived.
Perfection is an illusion. No, I don’t look 20 anymore and in a way that’s a good thing. We keep praising each other for looking prepubescent well into our golden years and it feels tragic.
Insecurity will haunt your days and nights if you never move pass the molding of the clay phase of life. It will make you hate yourself that at 55 you look 55 and not 17 still. So you can absolutely inject collagen into you
and botox your laugh lines
and work out for 10 hours a week
and master “resting bitch face”
Hopefully your youth chase doesn’t end in collapsing from a heart attack on the treadmill. Living a healthy long life is paramount but at some point you really shouldn’t still have shit to prove about your appearance. Take the car out for a spin. Live before it’s too late because you won’t be there to get the compliments on your rocking hard abs at your funeral. Experience is the real mark of beauty.

( A photo of me when I was 17.)