Guaranteed to Erase the Appearance of Fine Lines

Anti-Wrinkle and Guaranteed to Erase the Appearance of Fine Lines

I am obsessed
with time…
with the lack of it

If you are over 30, I know what you want. If not, don’t bother to read this now.

You want to know when did life get this short. Why grey hair now, and in those unimaginable places!
Those crows feet and wrinkles waiting, lurking out there. How come the window between 30-50 is so small!

My investigations have to do with the impending everything that strikes the now not-in-his-20's-person. I pass a senior assisted living residence and shudder. I am looking out from the windows thirty years from today and see myself standing there. I am looking up at my myopic eyes. The shudder passes, I shrug and leave. That night of course I sleep tiresomely and follow the great American tradition of grinding my teeth.

Why this fascination with death? This irreparable lack of respect for age and, certainly, no mention of wisdom anywhere. Who is fascinated with life these days? Glow worms! And, of course, attentive teenagers on attention-deficit medication.

Who needs that---give me anti-wrinkle cream, and a teeny Prozac with a healthy dash of Viagra. I will conquer the gaps of self-worth, ignorance and loneliness.
Youth in a jar, happiness in a little pill, sex in a blue square--forever youth. Shangrila–the mystical kingdom reached overnight.

Did you ever stop to think why only this generation is plagued by a sexually transmitted disease? And don’t argue, it was cancer before–-or polio before that.

Did I wonder before I sat down to write this piece, why tiny passages of time such as a few decades or centuries matter to large continents. When did time and space become such disparate, imbalanced entities! I was taught in school 'time = space'. It is merely a matter of perception said my books. So since when did a few 100 years make history, which needs to be repeated anyway, despite its obvious lessons.
The galaxies are laughing at us!
And why put away old people to pasture?
There must be a culture on another galaxy that we learnt this behavior pattern from, since as a race we are wholly unimaginative, a culture somewhere that in science-fiction fashion exterminates adults above a certain age–lose your usefulness and off with your head-- is that senior genocide then?

When will I be put to pasture–I perversely wonder.
And by whom? My God child?

Is there then an obvious answer that I am withholding?
An aphoristic friend of mine says there are no answers only questions.