If I were present at the creation, I would suggest to God—with all due respect—that He use the butterfly as a pattern for humans, not Himself. With butterflies, the best is at the end.
For most of our lives, we would crawl on our bellies doing nothing but eating, gorging ourselves with calories, our single goal to get as fat as possible with the smallest effort. Finally, nearing the end, as senior citizens so stuffed we could barely move, we would slowly weave a cozy chrysalis around our pudgy little bodies. After a lengthy nap and no effort on our part, we would burst forth, transformed into slim, chiseled hotties with tight abs, our bodies packed full of energy and oozing hormones, able to fly on huge iridescent wings made of rainbows.
We would soar upward into the air to the ultimate Spring Break—Seniors Gone Wild, flashing in the sky to frenetic sex and party-hearty, as fast as we could and as much as we could.
We would soon die, but not of cancer, stroke, or heart failure. We would die of exhaustion, collapsed on stained bed-sheets surrounded by empty bottles, with smiles on our faces and no regrets—an old age to look forward to.
But who ever listens to me?