The second time I saw you, I was more prepared. I looked you square in the … I looked at you. I said, “I accept you. I welcome you. You and I have much in common. You are not my enemy.”
The third time, I said, “I honor your wisdom. I admire your stories and accomplishments. I embrace the struggles you’ve witnessed and your courage in overcoming them. I will never try to hide you with an Alexander McQueen floral print-silk neckerchief.”
The fourth time, slightly breathless, I said, “If falling for the force of gravity is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”
Then I told you that I loved you.
But you didn’t say you loved me back.
It was mortifying. After everything we’ve been through, I felt we had a deep bond forged by shared experience and suffering. I assumed we’d reached an elevated state together where harsh, external judgments about beauty couldn’t touch us—a world where airbrushing was for people who don’t know Charlotte from Emily. I thought you loved me too. But I was wrong. You’re just as shallow as everyone else.
After that, I have to be honest. I started looking at other wrinkles. My crow’s feet are warm and compassionate and obviously open to a relationship. So what if I don’t have the same feelings towards them? At least they don’t just sit there like some unhinged collagen fiber, expecting me to do all the work. Continue Reading