That's the word that came to mind as I navigated my evening. The events of the day led me to think of a passage in the book Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier, underlined by a dear friend when were 21. It is this:
They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one. They are full of little cowardices, little fears without foundation, and one is so easily bruised, so swiftly wounded, one falls to the first barbed word. Today, wrapped in the complacent armour of approaching middle age, the infinitesimal pricks of day by day brush one but lightly and are soon forgotten . . .
Should I feel youthful that my day delivered those little cowardices to me?