Why Fight Midlife Body Changes When We’re Destined To Lose?
Embracing the metamorphosis is liberating…
My weight never concerned me.
I’ve always been petite and slim despite eating like a horse. I danced ( for a short while) and worked with a magician who picked me from a group of wannabes because I could comfortably fit into his “illusion box.”
It wasn’t hard.
I stepped inside it wearing a red ensemble and popped out changed into white. Effortlessly, like a Jack in the box, like it happened at the swish of a magic wand. Like I didn’t just rip the top, red layer off while laying claustrophobic in a case, knocking my elbows on the sides, cursing underneath my breath.
Once the box opened, I sprang out, hoping I’d smoothed out the white clothing enough to look decent. A wide grin spread across my face, beaming at the audience.
It was aired on the local television.
Those were the good days. I could eat entire packs of chocolate biscuits without repercussions, without guilt setting in, and without the fear of my mid-section expanding in size.
I step on my yoga mat like I do it every day. It’s a well-oiled routine. Flexing, stretching, strengthening, lifting, and holding for as long as the instructor asks me to. For as long as I can hold the pose without muttering profanities at the unsuspecting online teacher.
Often letting go just when I think I ran out of strength.
I hate to admit it, but changes to my body are well underway. I can fight it, kicking like a toddler in the midst of a meltdown, or dismiss it like it’s not happening to me. But who am I kidding?
Today, I notice a new set of crow’s feet glaring back at me as I apply my make-up. Tiny clumps of foundation stuck in the creases, which I carefully try to blend without dragging my collagen-deprived skin further.
A bit more here, a bit more there as I press the sponge harder. Frustration grows with each passing moment.
Oh, sod the clamps. All of them. I’ll wear them today like I wear my skirt.
Madonna, recently caused a commotion amongst her fans when she turned up at her son’s Rocco’s art exhibition in London with a swollen face. Speculations had emerged as to what happened to her look. Could it be surgery? A non-invasive beauty treatment? A fat removal procedure?
She indeed looks different and not to her advantage. Whatever she had done, it transformed her into someone different. Fabricated, unnatural, and borderline unrecognizable compared to her earlier self.
Why do we do this to ourselves? Desperately clutching onto our youth.
I mean the lucky ones who can financially afford it. For the rest of us, it’s cheap fixes and clumpy foundation. Or whatever helps us conceal the passing of time.
Vanity doesn’t depend on money. It’s a woman thing. We want to look the part in our 20s, and although our standards may drop by middle age, we still crave the admiring stares when we walk past a man.
Isn’t it funny? How we are not willing to give up.
Even when wrinkles blemish our skin, inside we’re still the young women we once were. Wanting to feel desirable, whether there’s a husband at home cooking dinner or an empty house and no one to hug.
Age is grace, they say. And I can’t deny that fact. But the changes in my body — that become inevitable as I age — sometimes erase the joyful privilege of celebrating another birthday.
It’ll be my 48th this year. Two years shy of 50, with more years behind than the ones ahead.
So, I step onto the mat and soldier on, willing myself to hold the poses, stretching through the discomfort, lifting dumbbells, strengthening my core, determined to defy time.
I don’t have to say it’s all a lie. Gravity will win in the end; we’ll all get old one day. That’s if life allows us.
So, changing perspective may be our best bet. Isn’t it what therapists teach to recovering addicts?
Change what you can, accept what you can’t.
There’s no magic pill, it’s all a mind game. Acceptance. Surrendering. Letting go. It’s coming to terms with what’s gone and treasure the moments that are yet to come.
We can age gracefully, perhaps that should be the goal. Treating our body as it deserves so it does its job as per the manufacturer’s guidelines for the time we have left.
Salma Hayek is 57. She’s lean, healthy, and looks 20 years her junior. She’s an impressive example of how beautiful aging is possible. And her secret? Apart from her genes, nothing that would be impossible for us mere mortals.
She claims to have short exercise sessions daily, half an hour, five times a week. Nothing revolutionary, only simple maintenance. And she likes eating good food.
Food that nurtures her body and doesn’t clog her arteries. Foods that you cook from scratch instead of buying from the chippy around the corner.
She knows when to be mindful of her plate, often adjusting after an indulgent dinner by reducing calories the next day.
There’s no easy way around this. Losing weight as we get older looks nothing like getting into shape in your 20s. It takes more time. More patience. More tiptoeing around our hormones.
When she was asked in an interview what her beauty secret was, she said: “Keep the love going.” Unlucky for me — I thought, as I’ve been single for longer than I care to remember. But a romantic relationship isn’t the only source of love. How about our children? Parents? Friends? And yes, even our pets.
Love isn’t limited to an amorous liaison; it expands and encompasses the loved ones who make up a network in your life.
Aging gracefully is possible. Once we accept that it’s an inevitable part of life. Once we view it as a privilege that isn’t given to every one of us.
So what if we have wrinkles? We can cover them up with a clumpy foundation. Just like we can hide muffin tops with forgiving clothing.
It’s our mindset that really counts and helps us embrace the process.
The acceptance of perpetual change.
Because, my friend, we can kick and scream all we like, but we will never change the cycle of life.