Eariler at lunch, had a different odd sense. So, generally, I could reasonably describe my attitude towards the concept of physical attractiveness as a state of pepetual vague irkedness. It just sort of rubs me the wrong way that I automatically get such strong reactions and images of people's personalities based on, like, just their face. I guess it's no different than music, though, in the sense that major keys aren't really happy and cheery, and minor keys aren't really sad, but a complicated web of conventions and exposure and cultural training imply that music can render such emotional pictures to the right listener. So maybe I shouldn't be bothered by the fact that I can read faces as connoting personalities, as long as I realize that assuming that bearer of the face has that personality is the mistake.
That nonwithstanding: I saw this woman at lunch, perhaps in her mid 30s, whose appearance filled me with this really strange feeling of reverse nostalgia, as if I wanted to suddenly skip ten, fifteen years into my future and have it be the case that she were an old friend or something. There was something about such an ordinary, quiet face, so framed by straight black hair down to her chin, with just a few signs of age starting to show, wrinkles around her eyes as she smiled. I wanted to think she was someone's favorite aunt. I wanted to think that she rests on summer sundays in a cheap lawn chair on a front porch somewhere with a glass of iced tea and laughs at the stylistic excesses of an experimental novelist she's reading.
Weird feeling, that.