Fresh apples

There is a young woman I see around. I don’t know her name, and I’ve never even spoken to her, never exchanged more than the briefest of smiles with her. But when I see her, my heart feels light. She looks fresh, simple, unadorned. Unlike so many, many, many of the women in my world, she wears no makeup, she does not appear to style her hair, she wears normal* clothes, she strikes me as entirely unpretentious. She reminds me a little bit of me, at least, me as I would like to have been when I was her age.

(*As in sensible and functional, rather than as in the same as every other young woman. What most other young women wear is not what I would call “normal”…!)

The way she looks seems to say so much about her. She is clearly comfortable in her own skin, something that is so rare these days. I imagine her as a gentle, pre-feminist young woman who likes making music and reading books. I imagine her living alone, or with her parents still. I think perhaps she has a few good friends and that she is not especially interested in popularity or men because she is happy in herself. I hope she knows how to have the kind of fun that is actually meaningful. I admire her self-love, her strength, her self-contained content.

Of course, all this is entirely superficial, and it is pure fantasy on my part, built around an anonymous woman I see across the way from time to time, who looks nice, and normal. I’ve never spoken to her, and probably never will because either I would feel let down that she is not as I imagine her, or the fantasy would get in the way of our ever actually making friends, or both. Yet I like her enormously, as a sort of iconic figure in my life. I guess it is because she gives me hope for womankind.