Oh, you can say otherwise, but I think we all wish to be beautiful. We know better of course. As people of substance, we know that it's the beauty on the inside that counts. That external beauty is fleeting. That it's the kind heart, the generous nature, the grace under pressure -- those are the real traits to aspire to.
But nonetheless, the vain part of us longs, if secretly, to be, well, beautiful. At least a little bit.
I've had my prettier moments. And I've had my uglier times. But now, with my birthday fast approaching, I see that it's not circumstance that's robbing me, but age. That fresh unblemished skin that I took for granted has now made way to wrinkles. I know that I'm supposed to love them - to see them as evidence of a life well lived, each laugh line hard fought for. But, the truth is, I don't love them. I don't even like them. Inside, I still feel like I'm no more than 30 but on the outside, I'm....unmistakably, middle aged.
But for now, I'm pretending. I'll be off with the family for the next three days shooting a brochure and commercial (for private use) for a luxury resort. Here's to hoping that the makeup artist can hide the traces of Summers without sunscreen and that the hairdresser can mask those pesky strands of grey. Follow my comings and goings on Twitter.