Fear of Death and Apricots Before Bed

I was having trouble sleeping last night when a sudden terrible fear gripped me, the way they always tend to do when I stare at the fridge too long or catch a rain drop lose its light against a window pane or whenever I settle into a comfortable memory of late afternoon sun. It was that old death fear again. That wave of panic that is always ebbing and flowing, chasing at my heels. Never mind that I'm too young to worry about it (here I am overlooking that fact that age has absolutely nothing to do with it) because last night the fear was specific and driven by age. You see, like many young girls, young women, ladies, I have worked very hard to attain what I consider my optimal level of achievable attractiveness, the level that nature allows me, and I have spent a long time doing this. I went through bowl haircuts and purple hair dye and chunky sweaters and sweatpants and blue eyeshadow smeared across my face. I have earned whatever look it is I have now and then last night I remembered the slow decline of it all. I am now saddled with the job of maintenance. Of wrinkle cream and olive oils, fish oils, apricots and mangoes and avocados applied to my skin in some sort of theatrical arrangement best suited to block out the effects of a fluorescent bulb. But because I understand the inevitable, I shufled off the fear as I do with all those great big elephant fears and decided I'd have to keep cultivating the inside. The soil there lasts so much longer.