Age is relative. It’s subjective, too. I know this because I just turned 58 and everyone has an opinion about it.
To some I am “still a kid” while to others I am now “old.” I have been told I look “barely 45” but might also now be “invisible.” This from a friend who insists women my age disappear in restaurants and other public places where one must compete for service–and attention.
My three kids, loyalists that they are, maintain I am still “ageless,” which is marvelous to hear—but also physiologically impossible.
I am aging, one planet-around-the sun year at a time. Short of an asteroid hitting Earth and disrupting all our birthdays, I’m going to keep aging until I die. I’m good with it. How I approach my age is entirely up to me. For the record: I will not allow myself to be disappeared.
The older I become, the less I care what anyone thinks. This is not to say I didn’t hesitate a second—or ten—typing my age up there on the first line. But there it sits, 58, curvy and sassy and ready for adventure.
I don’t know who decided growing old was a disease that needed to be treated, injected and lasered three times yearly but it’s become a thing—fighting age.
I opened my email box this week to a message from a local dermatologist promoting a host of cosmetic treatments designed to fight aging. There was a time when emails like this would have promoted skin cancer prevention and sunscreen—and scheduling an office visit.
I’m all for actively maintaining a healthy body and mind but this idea of reverse engineering my body for youth—and social acceptance? Why does 50 have to be the ‘New 40’? What can’t 50 just be 50? Or 58. There, I did it again.
American society doesn’t make it easy to age gracefully or naturally. Worst still, the pressure to preserve youth is starting earlier and earlier. I am hearing from my daughters’ friends how estheticians are recommending Botox injections as a “preventative” measure to aging skin. The young woman who gives me a facial confirmed as much, noting how difficult it is even for her to hold the injectables at bay. “It’s hard to say no when it’s such a big part of the business,” she said, peering down at me through one of those high-powered magnifying glasses with a look of outsized bewilderment. Moved by her predicament, I encouraged my esthetician, who is barely 30 and as lovely as can be, to do what felt right for her and tell everyone else to go to hell. I think those were my exact words. You’re an esthetician, I said, not a human billboard.
It feels important, at my age, to push back—and speak up—against the forces of beauty and commerce that have turned aging into a shameful act.
Aging has its challenges to be sure. Body parts start to unionize in protest from overuse—my knees and heals don’t like that I’m trying to train for my first distance race. It takes a week to metabolize a handful of potato chips while one’s sex drive requires routine maintenance.
But then lots of good comes of aging, too. In exchange for skin-plumping collagen and estrogen, my years on the planet have given me perspective, acceptance, forgiveness, and stamina enough to write for hours, ski challenging runs, and face down crisis—and dipshits—like a bad bitch.
Sure, I slather on the same anti-aging cream everyone else who can afford it does—but I do so aware of the limits of these mostly expensive elixirs. If I forget, I have a flood-lighted vanity mirror from Frontgate to remind me.
On occasion, I have fantasized about being transformed by a laser or microneedle or the Face Fairy. But I always come back to costs—to my savings, my body, my kids and their peers. I want to be seen, yes, but seen as someone okay with looking her age. It’s why I took that picture of myself you see up at the top of this post. Other than a little mascara, it’s the real me, without filters or concealers or a brow job.
Genetics and wishful thinking suggest I could live to be 100. If so, then I’m a little more than halfway through a life that still feels full of possibility. At 58, I might be over-the-hill, but what if that hill is Mt. Everest—and base camp is still miles away.
So, happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to you, whatever your age.
Here’s to a year of popping off, being queens or kindly kings, running races, skiing the scary, finishing projects, hanging with true friends and stable family, and doing good deeds. Oh! And smiling. Lots and lots of smiling. It’s the best, most flattering, no-cost remedy for lip lines I’ve found yet.
