Tell a young girl that good looks don’t matter.

Tell a young man that making money doesn’t matter

when the world is screaming the opposite.

Tell a middle-aged woman that she will lose the advantage

she was never allowed to admit, but enjoyed nonetheless

when she reaches The End of Being Pretty.

Tell me people will appreciate my intellect.

Take me seriously.

Listen without needing to give advice.

Tell me that when I become a “Handsome Woman,”

dancing and singing,

I won’t embarrass myself.

Wait until people find out

I’m not as nice as they think I am.

Or as innocent.

Ah, the baseball players become younger every year.

Can I still wear this dress?

Do I need to change my lipstick shade?

Not yet.

Next year, maybe.

For now, I’ll only flirt under candlelight.

Next Chapter: Out