Aging Female
Some mornings I cannot enter social media without running into Helen Mirren or someone that is supposed to be Helen Mirren, but, photoshop; or Cindy Joseph, that radiant exemplar of how an older white female can succeed in modeling. The attached message will tell me that with exercise and diet, I too will be radiant and alluring, and that many people I know aspire to be radiant and alluring even though they are checking off that 55 and over block and have been for years.
Please, let *me* talk about aging. I grew up in an enclave of the wealthy and privileged. The girls around me went to cotillion, emerging into the world as debutantes, upper class young ladies with high expectations. Had there been tracks, I was on the wrong side of them, something I vaguely suspected, that bothered me the way any tiny stone in your shoe is an annoyance.
Then once past the age of youthful impacts, where one’s looks and pedigree dominated the stage, I found my footing in a world where whether blondes have more fun was not worth a mention.
But, the look. The self in the world. The feel. It all continued to matter not just to me, but in the workplace, and on the stage where we each and all are The Public.
So, aging is this.
Your face gets lines in it, if like me, you have spent hours upon days in the sun. Planting, hiking, swimming, paddling — your skin suffers. We didn’t have spf 30 sunblock when I was a teenager. Your bones, your joints, they take a beating if you are athletic. You do not have to be a marathon runner to wear out your knees, and mine have been complaining on the descent for decades. Now they are threatening to go on strike permanently. Menopause brings a thickening of the body, despite a consistent activity level.
Your insides also register their age. Just ask the pharmaceutical companies, all lined up for your business because you may need to use the bathroom more often than works if you still hike, because you have forgotten how to sleep through the night, because now your food doesn’t travel in all the same directions it once did after you swallow it.
So even though I have eaten fresh unprocessed foods nearly exclusively for all my life, my digestion pretends I am a fast foodie. Even though I made a point of walking several miles a day, up and down real hills, now at age 66 I seriously considered purchasing a chair lift ticket rather than climbing a teton to view the upcoming solar eclipse. Because, I will pay for that elevation on way or another. I will be able to make the climb, and return, but the next day, that will be rough. Because I am older. The body ages and there is really not all that much you can do about it. If you are lucky, you will not get arthritis and find yourself sidelined. If you are lucky, your hair will stay thick and lustrous, but chances are, it will thin and fade and become brittle. It is not the color of your hair any more than it is the color of your skin that makes you beautiful.
To people who are 80 and say they feel 30 even if they don’t look it, I say, wow. I vaguely remember 30, and last time I felt even a little bit 30 I think I was 55. Also, not to be catty, but it you feel 30, why do you move with that careful uneven gait of the aged?
In her latter years, I had the privilege of watching Martha Graham walk across the stage. She had danced until she was in her 70’s, and after she retired, she went into a precipitous decline. She wrote about her face being ruined, and about living in a circle of hell Dante had forgotten to mention, seeing younger dancers performing works she had created. But, something happened to Martha Graham. She gathered herself back up and returned to the world of ballet, now fully as a choreographer. She reclaimed her life. When I saw her, she wore a long red gown. She called out into the audience, “Who here is wearing red! Stand up so I can see you!” She gave accolades to the color red. I would like to suggest here Martha Graham as an alternative icon of the aging female. Our talents persist, and our joie de vivre takes careful tending.
Recently I mentioned the decline that comes with age to a friend who is about 15 years younger than I am, and she was surprised that I am not as lustrous on the inside as I am on the outside. But I am. She just perceives me through eyes that see more of who I am that what I am. When I talk about what I am, it seems discordant.
So here you go, all you 45 and 50 year old white women who aspire to look like Ali McGraw when you get to be her age. You would not have wanted your ten year old daughter wishing she looked like Barbie. So what’s up with you?
Like you may have done at 25, find your own look. Yes, it turns out we never got past the part where we want to look good, even marvelous. So do that. Pay attention to your posture. Find a way to wear your hair that fits your face. Don’t pay attention to any fool who says for god’s sake don’t wear the skinny jeans. Wear any jeans you want to. Own your look. Be an original. Do things that cleanse your soul. Drop the friction. Go out with your friends. Remember that your adult children are not children at all, and they are not even yours any more, so let their weight leave your shoulders. Feed your sense of who are and keep on growing, and let your personal look reflect you as an older female with a place of her own in this world. Feet on the ground, head in the air. Arms around everyone.