In praise of 23 (sort of)

There’s an object lesson in twenty-three year olds that I’m not getting. What is it about that age that I’m unconsciously and inexplicably drawn to? Should I look back at my twenty-three year old self to find it? And what do I expect to find beyond unbridled sex, profligate drinking and generally irresponsible behavior? Some forgotten hurt or a life-altering experience perhaps?

T.H. White wrote that a woman’s interesting period happens in her 20s when she is just getting a sense of her self. A woman-child untouched by life’s realities with a hopeful heart that’s yet to be broken by cruel men, even crueler women, facial lines and time.

Twenty-three year olds always seem poised to go somewhere gay and exciting and terribly exclusive. And it’s true too. They are, after all, on the cusp of life itself and all the joyful, grievous, dreadful things it brings.

So here’s to all you pretty young things. May you stay 23 forever.