The wind. The trees. Howling. Their limbs shaking. Begging the leaves to acknowledge their time together was done. They both could feel the end creeping closer. But the leaves wouldn’t let go. And the tree knew, the leaves had changed. They weren’t the same anymore. But the leaves wouldn’t relent. They had grown too attached. Too comfortable. Unable to accept the reality of their difference. Once green, then orange, briefly red and now dead. Merely a skeleton of their former self. Barely clinging to the dead comfort of company. The wind had watched too many moons pass and had to interject. He blew and solidified the separation. The leaves waltzed away to the windy rhythm. They’ll find one another again if they must. In the soil.

Suddenly, all of my female friends are running from age. It knocks at their nightmares like the grim reaper of sex appeal.

“I’m here to steal your value”

Yeah, I get it. We’re aggressively educated to believe our worth is our beauty.

Yes, I understand. We’re constantly confronted by iconic images of ripe 18 year olds with prepubescent bodies as the standard of beauty.

I know. The perpetuation of sex icons makes us doubt our own sexuality. Forces us awkward. Concerned about our tits, pussy and what our partner is really jerking off to.

Oh, trust me. I understand that we foster this negative image of ourself and it manifests in every aspect of our life. A life led by insecurity that becomes reality when 24 year olds begin purchasing anti-aging creams.

Well folks, I’m real insecure. I’ve been subjected to all of it and I recognize it. I can’t hide in ignorance, a curse I wish was lifted. But, I don’t worry about my age. I fucking hope I make it to see my wrinkles. All I hope for is that I don’t have cancer by the time my wrinkles deepen.