Thinking back on being 18 (when this picture was taken), when I was just beginning to think of myself as beautiful, becoming aware of my sexual power. Looking in the mirror at the firm perky breats, smooth unblemished skin-- skinny arms, no ass, only the very slightest hint of hips. Size three jeans. Small. Sometimes extra-small. Thinking "this is sexy'... thinking "this body is powerful". Seeing it's effects. "Real women have curves", sure-- but fat women say that. Old women. Meanwhile I have what they all wish they had.

But it's a dangerous thing to have your concept of beauty defined by youth.

I was faking it then, altough I didn't realize it. Not the confidence, though it was false-confidence. But the self-awareness, the self-acceptance, the being-on-good terms with my body. The feeling beautiful. Of course I was faking a lot of things-- I was 18. Faking sophistication, faking detachment, faking orgasms. Afraid to admit that I didn't really know my emotions or my body. Wanting to be mature, and, naturally, revealing my immaturity simply by having that desire.

Here I am 5 or 6 years later. Looking in the mirror. A size or two heavier. Rounder. Softer. Still thin, but differently shaped. Less perky, less firm, less smooth. There's fat, stretch-marks. Grey hair! A whole mess of it--I dye my hair (as I did when I was 18) so it isn't visible to anyone but me. But it's there... physical evidence of the passage of time.

Feeling beautiful and sexy because you are young and your body is young and your face is young... is artificial empowerment. It's fake self-acceptance. It's destined to become perverted and twist itself into fear and self-loathing and only having sex with the lights out and "I can't leave the house without my make-up on." It's cheap and easy and has the thrill of enlightenment: "What a good modern sex-positive feminist I am! I love my body!" But you haven't wrestled with the concepts of beauty and body-image in society, and emerged triumphantly empowered. You just finally found a way to fit yourself into the molds. You only wanted to change them when you thought they didn't apply to you.

Good for 18-year-old-me for finally seeing myself in the mirror and liking what was there-- it took a long time to get to that point. But it may as well have never happened if it can't last.

When youth is the beauty ideal, every day after that first discovery of your beauty is a step away from it. An apple declared "ripe,"--and plucked off the tree--can never become any riper. It can never improve, and it's current state is fleeting. It's fate: to gradually spoil and rot. So be carefull with those declarations.