When I was a boy, I thought I was particularly good looking. I blame my mother, who told me I was handsome over and over again. As I entered the real world, it became obvious that my looks, at best, might be considered unnoticeably average. I have old photos to prove how far off my mother’s opinion was.
My aging has been a process of recognizing that my looks have little to do with my happiness or how others perceive my value. Yet, so many friends I know get confused about this whole issue. Collectively, people spend billions of dollars each year in an attempt to look artificially prettier or more handsome.
There’s one thing I know for sure. As I jaunt through my seventies, I’m not going to get better looking. And, I’m not even going to try.