The phenomenon of being forever frozen in the time at which we met.
I scrutinized the photo of the gray, balding, middle-aged man, looking for some familiar sign.
According to Facebook, this was a person I had gone to high school and college with, someone I knew fairly well. I should recognize this man.
And finally, when I more deeply examined the twinkling eyes, the broad grin, I saw him — Cory, the mischievous, brilliant, sweet guy I knew more than two decades ago. He was a top cross country runner then. Lean and tan. And yet here, a bit more pale and not quite as lean, smiling out from a photo with his wife and kids at a sporting event, he looked like any other older man whom I might walk past without a single second thought.
How did this happen? Because my friends don’t age.
Of course, they must. I’ve sent plenty of birthday cards, hoisted any number of birthday toasts. I hung a new calendar on the wall last January.
But when I sit across from my friend Teresa at lunch, it’s impossible to believe that she’s nearly 51. Sure, her skin reflects a love of the sun and tanning beds, as does mine. Her body reveals the slower metabolism of middle age.
