A colossal cosmetics ecosystem has matured with the civilized world. Products alone represent $62 billion in revenues in just the US. This industry exists for one purpose: to make beauty’s retreat before age a dignified affair. Physical beauty is bitterly fleeting for everyone. Though at least men can take solace in it not being their primary mating currency. Women, in contrast, are obliged by the demands of nature to approach their looks with far greater urgency.
With that urgency in mind, and at the risk of forfeiting vast wealth by giving it away, this post will reveal the lost ancient secret for how a woman can remain radiant until her wrinkled and bent body finally expires. There was an age just subsequent to the Pleistocene when women’s innate understanding of this anti-aging miracle was buttressed by their society rather than refuted by it. Anthropologists often call the proto-humans who lived during this period their “grandparents.”
And what these distant people understood–as inferred from drawings on cave walls–is this: a young woman who is economical with her sexual favors, and bestows them (along with her loyalty and affection) in marriage to an honest and appreciative man will never grow old in his eyes. No face wrap even comes close.
Consider this touching portrait of a recently deceased couple who had been married 62 years. Knowing the final hours were upon them, they passed from this world as their life was spent in it: holding hands. And when the husband looked down at the failing husk of his wife, you can be assured what he saw was this woman:
Rather than this one.
That’s not just sap from a sentimental story. It is a process proven by the millennia for how women keep men committed when age has stolen their primary means of doing so. Love may or may not be an evolutionary illusion, but if so it is one powerful enough to veil the scars of time. If a wife is still beautiful to her husband, then she can still feel beautiful. Makeup and marketing careers are very poor substitutes.
And I’m not the only one who thinks so. The poem below was penned by a black woman who died in poverty because they wouldn’t publish her work. For those inclined to hear, it offers directions to the only fountain of youth.
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from your figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.
Because of its graceful candor, I particularly liked the speaker’s acknowledgement of time’s savagery to our appearance. Thus he understands that after many seasons his eyes (seeing beauty still) may be deceived. But it is a deception he embraces happily. And that benign self-deception after the dizzying bloom of youth is precisely what young women are purchasing with their chastity and loyalty. What was clear to their grandmothers is concealed by their professors.
Male-female pair-bonding could accurately be considered the cement of civilization. Thus it should be no surprise at all to find it so fervently subjected to the solvents of feminism, pansexuality, and gender-spectrum theory. If you want to destroy an edifice from the ground up, you begin with its foundation.
All of which was my response to reading a relationship fluff-piece now months-old. I don’t have a link and can’t recall every particular, though the article lingered vaguely in mind long enough to require a posting enema.
It was about a lovelorn sad-sack man who was so desperate to cling to his disinterested girlfriend that he granted her open sexual liberties if she would keep one leg in his bed. The profoundly silly and slovenly girl gladly accepted the offer, and spent most of her evenings being perforated by strangers while lying in mildew. She expressed a sort of bovine entitlement headlined by the imbecilic platitude that a woman should be able to have it all: pubic lice and a psychotically bitter boyfriend, presumably.
That last part is one of nature’s well-developed hurdles to vacuous slatterns actually having it all in the manner this one expects. No matter what lies they may tell their partners or themselves, 99% of men view their women as exclusively theirs, and react with varying ferocity when disabused of the notion. That fury from being emotionally stabbed doesn’t actually dissipate with repetition.
As a result, every one of the girlfriend’s cavalier liaisons is a hot knife in his gut. He stifles his response to these in order to hold the sliver of her attention he is still able to command. But he won’t stifle it forever.
In the unlikely event such a union actually proceeds to marriage, his desperate restraints will come off. Nothing will be forgotten or forgiven. Once married he will begin to exact retribution in ways that are merely petty if she is fortunate. Which means the mildew has more potential for long-term harmony than a man she has repeatedly humiliated.
Though the thematic point is that she is going to age very poorly in his eyes. Her commitment to riding the carousel will come at the cost of his or likely any other man’s benign self-deception. At 40 she won’t look 25 to him; she’ll look 80. That is something the civilizational solvent industry will never tell her. Too bad grandmothers don’t write hate blogs.