I woke up this morning with the thought blaring through my head that I am almost twenty-four. Which is true, kind of — I’ll be twenty-four this summer, but since it’s going to be 70 degrees in Denver today, maybe that’s what brought it on. You know, feels like summer… oh, nevermind.
In any case, the problem is that 24 makes me think of 25 which makes me think of 30, whereas 23 makes me think, “Oh, I was just 20,” which brings a refreshing connection to the physical perfection of college students, spring break, and the like. But 30 - well, 30 brings me awfully close to having babies and a big house with a bigger mortgage and being that mean person who tells twentysomethings to “Conform,” “Stop dreaming,” or maybe worst of all, “Pay your dues.” Man, I hate that.
Our American society is so overrun with its fascination with youth that we have forgotten how to enjoy aging. I find myself utterly torn between a me that wants to be in my early twenties forever and a me that wants to get older quickly (so I can stop paying the damned dues). At the same time as we strive for a constantly youthful appearance, we’re condescending our youth with the curse of existing only for entertainment. Think about it — twentysomethings are all the rage when it comes to water-cooler talk (although does anyone even have a water cooler with which to talk around anymore?). I don’t even need to name these people for you, they are the instant, just-add-water (hey, you could use that water-cooler!) celebrities that pop in your mind the second you need to discuss anything with anyone. (If you really have no clue who I’m talking about, visit the Lycos 50 and see what people search for on the internet.)
So, while the “adults” are telling the youth (mostly, me) to “pay my dues,” they’re concurrently propagating a contradictory fact: the fact that some people really don’t have to pay these so-called dues, and it’s those people who deserve our unabashed fascination. If, by some miraculous occurrence, you can skirt this paying of dues (what the hell does that mean, anyway?), you obviously deserve our respect and attention, not to mention truckloads of money.
I don’t have to tell you that in a culture drooling over entertainment we tend to judge beauty by cover over content. You know this. But the problem is that I’m not going to stay twenty-four. I’m going to get older and get wrinkly hands and an achy back and those crow’s feet smile lines that appear on the outside of your eyes… and I don’t want to hate it.
There has to be an inherent beauty that comes with aging that we are tragically missing. I believe in something like aging gracefully, and I don’t think that means gliding gracefully down to the plastic surgeon.
But what do I know — I’m only twenty-four. I mean, twenty-three.
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