Warning: diatribe against the obsession with youth may or may not ensue.
Wait a minute...
Oh, yeah. It's gonna ensue.
These articles are so predictable, right? So predictable and rehashed. They start with the girl in her twenties. She's posed in some triumphant stance, like the captain of a cheerleading squad, pumped with the awesomeness of being in her twenties. Her outfit is scant, she can't stop flipping her hair, and the writer gushes ad nauseam about the inevitability of her good fortune: she's twenty, she can get away with anything, case closed.
Then we proceed to the girl in her thirties. Her body language is jubilant, but not to the same degree as the captain of the cheerleading squad. An atmosphere of revelry pervades this decade, yet there's also a whiff of caution in the air. Do you feel it? Can you smell the danger?
Dear reader, if you're in your thirties and don't have the good sense to start worrying about the aging process, then thank goodness you got your hands on this article! It will set you straight at once. It will move you to scrutinize yourself for those fine lines, those wobbly bits, those spidery veins. And just when your heart sinks at the discovery of such telltale signs, the article jumps in to assure you all is not lost. Yet. After all, you're in your thirties, darling. There are still dregs in your fountain of youth. Gather your rosebuds and all that jazz.
But there are storm clouds brewing on the horizon.
The storm clouds? Oh, those are the forties. At this point, the article begins speaking in hushed tones like an undertaker, offering these condolences: Well, you're forty and the jig's up. We hope it was a good ride. Looking forward...(awkward pause, a fumbling for words)...at least you have the advantage of experience. At least you know how ridiculous most fashion trends really are and have the good sense not to fall for them unlike those gorgeous twenty-somethings we all adore.
Now the article starts to act real chummy. It gets right up in your personal space and stares like there's noone else in the room. It's a bit awkward, but whatever. You can smell its breath. Woodsy. With a note of pine.
How about the dermatologist?, it suggests, looking you over in a way that makes you feel trussed for the meatlocker. How about fillers, toxins, nips and tucks? Dear me, but things are progressing quickly. What base are you on? What are the rules? You hardly know.
You smile nervously, a look which the article misconstrues as encouragement. It nuzzles your ear and whispers something that is truly shocking, something which cannot be repeated due to the decorum of this blog.
Call me a prude, but at this point I slapped the magazine and set it down. I mean, there's a limit, franchement. The poor model looked so stoic, so resolute, with a sort of smiling through her tears expression that depressed the living daylights out of me. As a result, I never got to acquaint myself with the horrors of turning fifty or sixty. And beyond that--seventy? Well, the seventies went unmentioned and I'm sure I hardly need to explain why.
In all seriousness, here's what bothers me: it's not the desire to look beautiful or the efforts we make in so doing. It's not even the fact most people associate beauty almost exclusively with youth, though I do admit to finding such a mindset disheartening, so lacking in imagination. No. What bothers me is this tacitly sneaky, and often blatantly direct message that it's not okay to grow older. That the process of something which is naturally and inevitably happening should make you feel bad about yourself, should make you obsess over ways to jam the machinery, should rob you of your one real commodity, time, and should distort your capacity for self-acceptance and therefore the ability to focus on things of greater and more lasting significance.
Depending on certain mitigating factors, these thoughts may resonate with you to a greater or lesser degree. My sister who lives in the Midwest, for example, assures me women there are less driven by such concerns. I would say, in general, the preoccupation with physical appearance, especially the obsession to look younger, is very much on the radar around these parts. Here in Las Vegas you see a fair number of eerily taut ladies who look at you with an expression of permanent surprise. Which is not meant as an indictment of their choices so much as I rail against the social climate that contributes to people confusing appearance with self-worth in the first place.
I do acknowledge a certain irony in my argument. In criticizing the obsession with physical appearance, I am creating a certain obsession myself: the obsession of not obsessing, which is always a little suspect, in my opinion. Isn't there a line from Hamlet about protesting too much? Listen, I never said I was immune to this mindset. I think youth is beautiful, too. I am hardly scheming for ways to speed up the aging process. I just wish our concept of beauty would expand to appreciate the loveliness of all stages of life. And that perhaps we would value inner beauty in the same way we prize outward appearance.
Imagine that.
Either way, it's all rather superficial (except the inner beauty part) and I can't help but cringe at how vapid and insignificant this conversation would seem in many parts of the world.
Oh dear. Who permitted me to climb upon this soapbox? Who thought it would be a good idea to let me preach? Dear reader, all you had to do was toss a cupcake in the other direction and none of this would have ever happened.
Anyway, in all honesty, the initial premise for this post was quite innocent. I got to thinking about Erin's comment from an earlier entry, the one about the impossibly elegant elderly lady I saw at Trader Joe's the other day.
So I'm wondering anew: rather than describing the ideal version of your eighty year old self (assuming we reach that benchmark with health and faculties intact), what kind of little old lady (or man, as the case may be) do you actually expect to become?
My answer (which is still ideal, but more realistic): I think I will be the type of old lady who loves to be outside, who loves to go for walks. I think I will always help children discover the beauty of the world around them.
I think I'll be the type of old lady you'd like to sit beside so I can tell you a story. And I would like to listen to yours.
I think I will always have a penchant for sweets.
I hope I am not terribly crabby or impatient...but all bets are off in the eighties, darling.
I think my hangout will be the library.
I hope I am mainly natural, but I wouldn't be surprised if I indulge certain vanities, such as coloring my hair (unless I go a lovely, snowy shade of white). I doubt you will see me and think, "What an elegant creature!," but hopefully my presence will seem creative and interesting. I think it's safe to say that if by the age of forty I have not yet achieved a signature look (which I haven't), chances are my style at age eighty will continue to be slightly random. Oh well.
I hope I don't start too many phrases with the words: "In my day..."
I hope I will always enjoy my time alone.
I hope I will have learned to knit and crochet. I hope I will have found that literary agent. And I do hope I can speak French like nobody's business.
I hope there is always something lovely baking at my house, and that people gather there often to eat.
I hope my house will always feel like a home.
I hope I will always make a difference for good.
I hope I have a ready smile. I hope I have a ready laugh. I hope people will feel comfortable around me. I hope you will see a certain beauty in my lined and furrowed eighty year old face for the person I am trying to become. I hope you will look at me and see kindness, humor, wisdom and love.
