A bit of introspection today.
Yesterday, an article popped up in my feed in one of my social media spaces. One of those ones that you know has been selected for you based on an algorithm. This one was all about fashion mistakes that middle aged women make, that make them look older. I was proud of my middle aged sisterhood for responding by flipping the article the collective bird in the comments section.
But it set me thinking.
Once we hit this patch on life's journey, we're constantly being given hints and tips on looking younger, slimmer, more attractive. Now, I understand that on a purely instinctual level, men are more likely to be attracted to women who are (or appear to be) of reproductive age. It's that whole hard-coded drive to procreate. Attracting a mate is in the very DNA of living things.
But for those of us whose reproductive years are behind us, surely there are more important things to do than pretend to still be young enough to gestate?
Use our cosmetics (tested on animals) to make yourself look younger and more attractive to men!
Ugh.
I'm not suggesting that we neglect our skin care regimes and abdicate stewardship of bodies and faces. But surely we can move on from this notion that old=ugly? My skin is pretty good, but it is unmistakably the skin of a woman in her mid 50s. And why is that a bad thing? I am a woman in her mid 50s. My skin has housed me all that time. It has stretched as I grew up or got larger through pregnancy or gluttony. It has also (albeit less frequently and less dramatically) shrunk, after childbirth or due to diet-and-exercise. It bears the marks of the story of my life so far. A scar on my cheek from a close encounter of the painful kind with a steering wheel. Another across my brow bone, where said brow bone once made a bid for freedom and tried to forge a new life for itself on the outside of my skin. Stretch marks like laddered tights all over my hips where growing babies tested the limits of its capacity to stretch. Inevitably, for a woman who grew up in a sunny country in the days before people cared about sunblock, I have a few of the clusters of melanin referred to as age spots. I'm carrying far too much weight, and for the sake of my health, I should shed it. But my skin soldiers on, housing all the excess me and taking it in its stride.
You've got to respect that. Come on.
Stop wearing that. It ages you. Wear this. It makes you look younger.
But I'm not younger. And why is that a bad thing? I've had almost 55 years of doing stuff. There's no way all that stuff could have fitted into a shorter period of time. 12 years at school, almost 30 years of marriage, a master's degree, a career spanning 25 years, two adult sons. Races run, songs sung, awards received, conferences attended (and addressed), loss, grief, joy, achievement, triumph, defeat. I've acquired skills and knowledge. I've been places and done things.
Judging by the attitudes of my peers, it takes this long to find the sodthat button and push it with an unrepentant, if slightly arthritic forefinger.
These days, I spend most of my days dressed in overalls and safety boots. I'm usually covered in sawdust and/or paint. Quite often my face is obscured by safety goggles and a dust mask. Does my bum look big in that? Probably. Because it is big in that... and every other thing I wear. Does it age me? Almost certainly, because the sawdust will emphasise my wrinkles. I'm sure the appearance police would have a conniption.
It's all about outward appearances. We're obsessed. How old do you look? How slim do you look? Wear blocks of colour to look taller. Wear vertical stripes to look slimmer. Wear lilac eye shadow to look younger.
Surely it should be less about looking and more about being and doing?
So your outfit makes you look young, but you treat people like dirt? Is that okay? You have a tight tush but you've never helped anyone out of a tight spot. Is that cool? Your skin looks like that of a woman 15 years younger, but your cosmetics are wrecking the planet. Is that good?
I believe Roald Dahl said it very well (in The Twits):
So yeah. See that gaggle of middle aged women over there? You think they look faintly ridiculous in their inappropriate outfits. You wonder if they realise that you and your friends are laughing at them. You wonder if they realise that their confidence is misplaced, after all they lost their power to turn heads at least a decade ago.
Well, eat your heart out. They've earned their stripes. They don't care that men aren't drooling over them (in fact they feel quite liberated by that fact). It's taken them fifty-plus years to reach this point and they're going to rock it. Hard.
Women's magazines are full of advice for them.
They don't give a rat's ass.
Yesterday, an article popped up in my feed in one of my social media spaces. One of those ones that you know has been selected for you based on an algorithm. This one was all about fashion mistakes that middle aged women make, that make them look older. I was proud of my middle aged sisterhood for responding by flipping the article the collective bird in the comments section.
But it set me thinking.
Once we hit this patch on life's journey, we're constantly being given hints and tips on looking younger, slimmer, more attractive. Now, I understand that on a purely instinctual level, men are more likely to be attracted to women who are (or appear to be) of reproductive age. It's that whole hard-coded drive to procreate. Attracting a mate is in the very DNA of living things.
But for those of us whose reproductive years are behind us, surely there are more important things to do than pretend to still be young enough to gestate?
Use our cosmetics (tested on animals) to make yourself look younger and more attractive to men!
Ugh.
I'm not suggesting that we neglect our skin care regimes and abdicate stewardship of bodies and faces. But surely we can move on from this notion that old=ugly? My skin is pretty good, but it is unmistakably the skin of a woman in her mid 50s. And why is that a bad thing? I am a woman in her mid 50s. My skin has housed me all that time. It has stretched as I grew up or got larger through pregnancy or gluttony. It has also (albeit less frequently and less dramatically) shrunk, after childbirth or due to diet-and-exercise. It bears the marks of the story of my life so far. A scar on my cheek from a close encounter of the painful kind with a steering wheel. Another across my brow bone, where said brow bone once made a bid for freedom and tried to forge a new life for itself on the outside of my skin. Stretch marks like laddered tights all over my hips where growing babies tested the limits of its capacity to stretch. Inevitably, for a woman who grew up in a sunny country in the days before people cared about sunblock, I have a few of the clusters of melanin referred to as age spots. I'm carrying far too much weight, and for the sake of my health, I should shed it. But my skin soldiers on, housing all the excess me and taking it in its stride.
You've got to respect that. Come on.
Stop wearing that. It ages you. Wear this. It makes you look younger.
But I'm not younger. And why is that a bad thing? I've had almost 55 years of doing stuff. There's no way all that stuff could have fitted into a shorter period of time. 12 years at school, almost 30 years of marriage, a master's degree, a career spanning 25 years, two adult sons. Races run, songs sung, awards received, conferences attended (and addressed), loss, grief, joy, achievement, triumph, defeat. I've acquired skills and knowledge. I've been places and done things.
Judging by the attitudes of my peers, it takes this long to find the sodthat button and push it with an unrepentant, if slightly arthritic forefinger.
These days, I spend most of my days dressed in overalls and safety boots. I'm usually covered in sawdust and/or paint. Quite often my face is obscured by safety goggles and a dust mask. Does my bum look big in that? Probably. Because it is big in that... and every other thing I wear. Does it age me? Almost certainly, because the sawdust will emphasise my wrinkles. I'm sure the appearance police would have a conniption.
It's all about outward appearances. We're obsessed. How old do you look? How slim do you look? Wear blocks of colour to look taller. Wear vertical stripes to look slimmer. Wear lilac eye shadow to look younger.
Surely it should be less about looking and more about being and doing?
So your outfit makes you look young, but you treat people like dirt? Is that okay? You have a tight tush but you've never helped anyone out of a tight spot. Is that cool? Your skin looks like that of a woman 15 years younger, but your cosmetics are wrecking the planet. Is that good?
I believe Roald Dahl said it very well (in The Twits):
"A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely."
 |
| Gaggle of middle aged women (I'm in white) |
Well, eat your heart out. They've earned their stripes. They don't care that men aren't drooling over them (in fact they feel quite liberated by that fact). It's taken them fifty-plus years to reach this point and they're going to rock it. Hard.
Women's magazines are full of advice for them.
They don't give a rat's ass.
