You're getting better looking with age. Hand to God. If you think I'm making this up, go look at your prom pictures.

Pinch yourself. Right now. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

You feel that? You are—to put this quite bluntly—pretty damn incredible. If you don’t believe me, think back to when you used to poop your diaper five times per day. You’ve come a long way since then, big guy. Your brain is faster, your skin tougher, you don’t make impulsive decisions, you’ll even admit when you’re wrong.


You’re getting better looking with age. Hand to God. If you think I’m making this up, go look at your prom pictures. Better yet, try taking cellphone photos of yourself. Just be certain you hold the camera above you when you do it. Otherwise, your face will turn out looking like Porky Pig’s older cousin.

Look, I don’t care if you have wrinkles on your forehead and silver in your hair. Who ever said this was a bad thing? Not me. Because I squarely disagree. I love gray hair, and I think wrinkles are privileges some people never get. Besides, I’d rather have crow’s feet and good insurance, than the body of a sixteen-year-old who couldn’t get heartburn even if he ate Cajun-sausage pizza past five o’clock.

Each year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second, you get better and better. And every few seasons, you make new friends—they all think you’re wonderful. I know this, because I’m one of them.

Furthermore, if you keep making buddies at this rate, by the time you take the ferry to Beulah Land, you’ll have your own personal ethnic group.

Also,—and try to stay with me here—you look good naked.

I just lost most of you. But I’m not sorry. I’ve never seen you naked, thank God, but you have. And I hope you stand before a mirror, jaybird-style, admiring the body God gave you. I don’t care what shape it is. It’s perfect.

If you’re a woman, you ought to take pride in your hips—no matter their circumference—and your other attributes, too. If you’re a man, smack that hair-covered beer belly and revel in its jiggle, hoss. It took a lot of suds to make that thing. This is your body. Damn the man who tells you there’s something wrong with it.

I don’t care what magazines say, reality television, pop musicians, high school bullies, ex-boyfriends, ex-girlfriends, judgmental parents, disgruntled minimum-wage managers, or anyone else. You are effulgently spectacular—and I don’t even know what that word means.

This is YOU we’re talking about. You’re the best thing some people have ever seen. The kindest, gentlest, most loyal, beautiful, thoughtful, genuine, alive, and selfless creature anyone in this universe ever had the pleasure of knowing.

And if that’s not the case…

You still have time.

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