The author is friends with someone 21 years younger than her.
Courtesy of the author
Three years ago, when I met someone 21 years my junior in an online class, I never thought we'd become close.Each week in a writing class, we filled the video call with highly personal details about our lives as we learned how to tell our stories. We spilled our emotions in front of dozens of strangers and eventually branched off into our own smaller writing group, bridging the divide between New York and Chicago, where we each lived. The vulnerable elements of our work were much more revealing than meeting a new friend in any other environment — and we were instantly connected on a deeper level. Our relative ages weren't actually important.At first, I was jealous of her youthMy anxiety about aging creeps into consciousness every time my knee makes a weird clicking sound or I find myself pulling up the edges of my neck on a video conference call. I spent several moments during our weekly calls wanting to look more like her than anything.I found myself envying her porcelain skin without the wrinkles I have on my forehead, and her perfect curls that I can't replicate on my frizzy mane. Comparison became a preoccupation as I regretted the things I did at her age — getting drunk with my friends and making bad decisions, kissing boys, and smoking cigarettes, while she was so much more disciplined and accomplished. She seemed so thoughtful about the direction she wanted her life to take. She worked hard to earn multiple offers to graduate school. She didn't waste her weekends wading through hangovers and guilt from poor decisions.
