I used to have a girl friend back in college who would, whenever I was wrinkling my brow while solving some particularly difficult computer problem, would reach over and rub my brow and tell me that wrinkles weren’t attractive.

I told her that I didn’t have wrinkles as I was the epitome of manhood— a Geek god incarnate. “But that’s how they start,” she would say.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I see the lines cutting through my brow and see the culmination of all of the thousands of problems I’ve solved. I also see the lines cutting my cheeks around my mouth and see all of the thousands of smiles and laughs I’ve enjoyed. I also see the lines cutting around my eyes and see all of the thousands of times I’ve cried.

I think wrinkles are attractive.

I would expect that if I met an old fart as myself without any wrinkles, I would wonder if they really had lived?

The Old Stage

Albert Einstein once said, “I live in that solitude which is painful in youth, but delicious in the years of maturity.” I appreciate that sentiment more as every day passes.

In fact, I think “age” is the best kept secret of the old. In our culture, we don’t laud this secret, nor do we glamorize it, nor do we insist it be respected. In fact, we often do the opposite and outwardly complain, to keep the youth in the dark.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go enjoy this kink in my back and this stiffness in my joints.

PS: No, I didn’t misspell Greek.