I sat in an English pub just off the Thames, nursing a pint of dry cider and taking in the sights and sounds of locals exchanging pleasantries and sharing meals around me. Jeremy and I were the only foreigners in the place, and that’s just how we like it when we travel.

An elderly gentleman walked in with his terrier on a leash (a Sealyham terrier as I heard him explain to more than one passerby) and sat down at one of the well-worn tables across from us–right next to a stone fireplace that is older than the country I came from.

The man was at least in his eighties. His knuckles were swollen with arthritis. His skin wrinkled with age. He greeted everyone who spoke to him with a big smile as he slipped dog treats under the table to his good-natured companion (who was named Mr. Fred–the dog, not the man).

The building we were sitting in, The George in Eton, was built in 1750 and has been a neighborhood fixture as a pub and meeting house ever since. It has low, timbered ceilings and stone walls and expansive fireplaces that kept the whole place warm before modern heating technology could intervene.

The tables and benches, while likely not quite as old as the building, have certainly seen decades, if not centuries, of use. Years of people gathering and ordering a pint after work and sharing meals and sharing life. The wooden flooring is worn smooth in the most trafficked areas. The walls are stained in places with soot and smoke. It’s so beautiful and quintessentially English.

So here I am, pondering the effects of aging. That dreaded word that we try so hard to avoid. But there’s something so rich and sacred about the signs of age–both in the neighborhood pub that has been here hundreds of years longer than any of us have been alive. And in the kind older man feeding his dog biscuits under the table–whose deep-set laugh lines represent a lifetime of stories to tell.

And I wonder–why are we so afraid of things getting older? It’s not only a basic fact of life; it’s also part of the beauty of it. We try to design our homes around cheap imitations of natural materials that we’re told will “never age” or will somehow stay pristine forever (an unlikely story we are too quick to buy). We are afraid of scratches and dents and weathering of any kind.

We alter our bodies and obsess over our wrinkles and do everything we can to erase signs of aging–instead of being proud of the years of experiences, friendship, family, love and loss that we’ve lived to share.

Maybe we could embrace the imperfection and beauty more. Maybe we can take a deep breath and look for beauty in the time passing. We should care for our homes and for our things and for our bodies and for our people–of course. Should give them as full and long a life as possible. Use the sunscreen. Clean the upholstery. Refinish the table. Handle with care.

But don’t be afraid of getting older. It adds to the beauty.