For the longest time, Justine could notice the people around her resenting her for her ostensible agelessness. While everyone else she knew, whether family or friends, appeared only to get older, showing those telltale signs through characteristics like wrinkles, gray hair and putting on weight, Justine stayed steadfastly the same. As if her looks were frozen at twenty-seven. Of course, there were the usual jokes about how she was a vampire, or the basis for The Age of Adaline. But the truth was much simpler than that. For, ultimately, Justine did three key things that, as far as she was concerned, “stopped the hands of time” for her: 1) she didn’t have kids, 2) she never stressed—about anything and 3) she had no vices that might cause premature harm to her body. This included alcohol or drugs of any kind. Both of which she had had her fill of by the time she was nineteen, having sowed her wildest oats as a high school dropout roaming the streets of San Francisco in the 90s.

It seemed no coincidence to her that her teenage years came to an end just as the 90s did. With the bursting of the dot-com bubble, so came the bursting of her own enchantment with the city, which was showing all the signs of starting to run amok with tech bros who all thought they could create the next big startup that would go “global.” Hell, she had even fucked some of them in her less sober moments of the night. Only to wake up in one of their lofts and realize what a disgusting mistake she had made. Justine figured this was at least part of the catalyst that drove her toward sobriety, therefore, longevity. Granted, it’s not as if she turned into some kind of fitness freak after giving up her beloved “mind-altering products” of choice, as if replacing one obsession with another. Instead, Justine just went cold turkey and proceeded to “raw dog” life for the rest of her days, which had now brought her up to forty-six years old in the current year. Yet, to those around her, the way she looked at forty-six was a source of rage rather than inspiration.

Take, for example, Justine’s older sister, Monica, who had just turned fifty and took it as an opportunity to accuse Justine of not looking as haggard as she “should” (that is to say, as haggard as Monica). Which is why, as Justine was helping her clean up the kitchen after everyone else had left the little soirée Monica had at her place to celebrate the milestone (though it felt more like a wake than a party), “Big Sis” kept sizing her up with a combination of suspicious and jealous eyes. Tired of being stared at, Justine finally demanded, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Monica stopped what she was doing as she arched her brow and asked point-blank, “What deal with the devil did you make?”

“What are you talking about?”

“How do you not have a single wrinkle? Is there a procedure you’re keeping to yourself because you don’t want the rest of us to know?”

While Monica probably thought that Justine would somehow be “flattered” by this line of questioning, it only irritated her. She despised the way people were always bringing up age, and it seemed to be happening even more so in her presence because others had difficulty “sussing out” how old Justine really was, a detail she would never tell, though Monica was always happy to spill the information if she happened to be around when someone else outright asked the question. A question that, like inquiring about how much money a person makes, Justine found to be in very poor taste. She could also tell that Monica took a great sense of pleasure in “outing” her in this way. That it gave her a “thrill” to let others know that her little sister was no spring chicken either. Just one of the many ways in which Justine looked at their relationship as being of a decided Jane and Blanche Hudson variety. Though of course she would never say that out loud to Monica, who would have somehow taken offense despite the way she so often acted like Jane. Not that Monica was ever fawned over for her “cuteness” as a child. In truth, she had always been the ugly duckling between the two of them, and it had turned her mean, caustic. Well, mostly toward Justine, but still.

In this regard, Justine almost wanted to tell her, as something of a “quick tip,” that meanness turns you old before your time. Sours and shrivels your face. Of course, some like to say that it merely burns calories. And as Monica continued to stare her down as if waiting for an actual response to such a preposterous question, all Justine could think to say was, “You know, I think I’ll have another piece of cake. Would you mind?”

Monica sniggered. “Your whole life has been one big piece of cake. I don’t think you need one of mine.”

“Wow. Okay. So I guess you think the fact that it’s your birthday gives you the right to be a total asshole.”

“My apologies. Must be all the wine talking.”

Justine glared at her. “Then the wine must be talking all the time, eh?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what? I’ll excuse myself. I think you’ve had enough assistance from me on the cleanup here.” Justine started to collect her purse and coat, heading toward the door as she said, “Happy birthday, big sis.” And before Monica could react, Justine was out in a flash.

Back in the “real world” (though her sister’s residential area in Napa hardly felt “real”), Justine could breathe again. The air inside Monica’s house had been palpably oppressive, but she had acclimated to it. And now that she didn’t need to anymore, the difference was like night and day, making her wonder how she could subject herself to such a toxic environment. Oh right, for the sake of Monica’s “milestone birthday.” Thinking this to herself, Justine also had another notion cross through her mind: Goddamn, I would so have a cigarette right now if I allowed myself to smoke. Fortunately and unfortunately, she didn’t. Would never again. For, as mentioned, those kinds of vices had been relegated to her teenage years. And she would not open up that Pandora’s box for anything. Especially since, if anyone cared to listen to her, it was a strict part of her so-called anti-aging regimen. But no one actually wanted to know what her “perennial youth” entailed. They just wanted her to stop having it so that they could, in turn, feel better about their own decrepitude.

Even Justine’s long-time “special someone” (the word “boyfriend” just didn’t feel right for someone of “their age”) seemed to have it in for her because of how much better she looked than him. And it didn’t help his ego when she told him to lay off all the beer that was only adding to his bad gut and skin. She knew that even he was envious of her one day when she awoke after doing nothing strenuous for the past week to find that there was something seriously wrong with her knee. As if she had overly strained it, even sprained it. When she hobbled into the kitchen area to get coffee and tell Matthew about this unexpected ill, he took a long pause before telling her sagely that her age was starting catch up with her. So no, nary a word of comfort or sympathy—or anything resembling concern. Instead, it was an odd satisfaction for him to see her felled in some kind of way that indicated she wasn’t “forever young.” The irony being that he probably would have dumped her long ago if he felt that she was getting too “long in the tooth.”

In the days that followed her mysterious knee injury, Justine decided she was going to break up with Matthew. Anyone else would tell her she was “crazy” to let go of a “viable” man in her own age bracket who was “willing” to date her. Justine knew that, au contraire, she could get someone new with the snap of her fingers. And no doubt, someone younger, since “MILFs” had been a fetish since at least the era of Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Sure, Justine didn’t fulfill the “mother” part of the acronym, but to most younger men, that didn’t matter. All you had to be was older to fulfill some kind of “maternal”/Oedipal fantasy for them. The only problem was, she realized, that most younger men actually did think she was the same age as them. A blessing and a curse. The latter category putting her on a level playing field with all the other far-more-naïve-than-her girls.

Even so, she didn’t regret dumping Matthew after he revealed his true colors; indeed, he was no better than her envious sister. And honestly, she questioned if he himself didn’t do something fucked up to her knee in the middle of the night to somehow cut her down to size. To make her feel like she wasn’t going to be “young and agile” forever, even if she could fool people with her appearance. But that was the other secret to her “eternal” youth. Because of how she looked, it influenced the way she felt. Ergo, the old chestnut, “You’re as young as you feel.*” *If you look young enough to feel it.