I've got a nice little headache brewing this morning. Perhaps that's because I looked in the mirror and there's no doubt about it: I'm aging. I've done pretty good, so far, with the Aging Thing. By "pretty good" I mean I weigh about what I did in college, I don't own a single pair of " mom jeans ", and my hair is still longish. These are, to me, age-indicators and I've done my best to meet these standards -- at times surpassing them by wearing juvenile baseball jerseys, Converse knock-offs, and taking wacky dance classes with young college girls. However, the person looking back at me in the mirror shrugs off these attempts at camouflage to reveal a very real, aging woman, and reminds me that there is a difference between youthful and youth . So, while I may be youthful in spirit and activity, I am not young. Later, I caught a glimpse of myself again, this time in the visor mirror in the car, and I think I saw a gray nose hair. Now that ...