Somehow, and utterly without explanation, I reached my midcentury mark in much the same sour pickle as I had 10 years earlier. My fading career was a grand invention born of an intoxicating mix of desperation, fortitude, and hope. At 39, I was a woman clinging to a tenuous lifeline, resolutely making it up every day on my computer, on a tiny table between the stove and the refrigerator. Everything in my life had fallen apart professionally. I felt utterly bereft and adrift. I spent my 39th year wavering between flailing about aimlessly and purposefully swimming toward a new shore. I was being buoyed by belief in my worth, my talent, my creativity, and my ability to magically transform my life from ruin into joy. Defying all logic, I did it. In the process of my grand reinvention, I raised an exceptional young woman with a wonderful, kind, supportive husband. Yup, I did that, and looking back on what I’ve accomplished over the past 13 years, I’m mightily chuffed. Even if it hasn’t always been a bed of glitter, it’s been a wonderful, wild ride. It is not over yet, not by a long shot.
I struggled with my 50th birthday, in much the same way that I struggled with my 40th. I asked myself why I wasn’t “there yet,” as if there was a there and there was a way of knowing that you’d arrived. “Am I there yet? Am I almost there? How will I know? Is there a road sign to alert me? How do I get there and how long can I stay there before they kick me out?”
I made room on my shelves for adult diapers and a prescription for osteoporosis medicine. I stocked up on comfort shoes and compression hose. I grudgingly signed up for the AARP and got my discount card. With menopause under way, I prepared to save a fortune on feminine products and permanently avoid toxic shock syndrome. Not to mention reveling in the sheer joy of waving a permanent farewell to Auntie Flo.
I never liked that bitch anyway.
I’d arrived at the big five-o. 50. As I pulled into the turnstile, I was met with a plethora of vexing changes. Weight gain, check. Jowl formation, check. Neck collapse, in progress. Sagging parts, here! Old lady hands, hello. Side boobs, egads! Suddenly nothing fits quite the way it did before. I have developed what I’m calling old lady arms. That saggy, fatty flesh that droops sadly over your elbows—what the hell is that?
I did not order that. Send it back!
The thing is, I don’t see any of it until I look at a photograph of myself. In my mind and in my mirror, I still look fabulous. And perhaps that solitary delusion of grandeur will be my saving grace.
Is it just me, or is it weird to think that at 50 all of the rules change without any fanfare? Who makes these decisions? And why?
I have a secret for you: 50 doesn’t feel much different from 49. It doesn’t feel much different from 39, either, at least not mentally. There isn’t a tectonic shift. That’s the strange thing about aging—it happens incrementally. You don’t see the subtle changes until you see a photo or a video or a reflection as you pass by the mirror under unflattering light and realize that you aren’t the you that you are used to being. Then you have to decide how you feel about that, because you can’t turn back time. You don’t feel older until you try to do something you’ve always done and find it suddenly more difficult. Time progresses, gravity pulls, collagen departs, estrogen exits stage left, and you get older. If you’re lucky.
There are many schools of thought on aging. The prevailing one is that women should “age gracefully.” I’m not exactly sure what that means. Aging gracefully is vaguely defined as dressing conservatively, getting a sensible haircut, wearing less makeup, acting your age, speaking softly, and fading into the background, all of which sounds hideous to me. This is all in the service of making older women less noticeable. Women are supposed to start becoming invisible when they turn 50 to make room for the newer models. We’re terrified of aging in this culture, thanks to the unrelenting stream of media messaging that older women are unattractive, boring, and disposable. We worship youth and beauty with a frenetic obsession. Women in their 20s are getting Botox®. Fashion models start work in their teens and age out long before 30. Actresses over 40 are counting the days until their last leading role. Women over 50 are finding it increasingly difficult to get and maintain a job.
When I look at the “What to Wear at Any Age” spreads in the fashion magazines, I have magically moved into the 50s category. Just like that. Apparently, until I turn the corner into my 70s, I’m supposed to steer clear of outfits that remotely resemble anything fun. According to the fashion police, most of whom are in their 20s, women should not wear miniskirts after 40. Women of a certain age should not wear leggings, and no women should wear leggings as pants. Women over 50 should not wear their hair past their shoulders, and it should definitely not be dyed outrageous colors. Women over 50 should not curse in public. Women over 50 should refrain from dancing on tabletops.
I’m not a fan of rules. I haven’t been keen on obeying them up to this point. It seems silly to start now.
One of the bonuses of turning 50 is that you care far less about what other people think. You get to decide every day how to dress, what to do, and what to say. The truth is, you always did.
Five years into my 50s and you’d think by this point I’d have it down. I don’t. I’m not sure one ever gets this stuff down. I have a sneaking suspicion that as soon as we master a decade, we’ve already slid into the next one. That’s been my experience so far. I look back with hard-earned wisdom. I want to tell my younger self all of this cool stuff that I’ve learned. The words would mean little without the added benefit of experience. Younger folks are prone to ignoring the heartfelt advice of older people. Even if I could travel back in time to meet the younger me without disrupting the fabric of space and time, I’m not sure my efforts would be fruitful.
Becoming Invisible
Women who are past the age of procreation and raising children are, for biological purposes, irrelevant. Men can keep making babies until they die, but that window closes for women after menopause. It bears pondering: Is biological irrelevance our enemy? That loss of hormones also signals the end of our youth. We’ve been enculturated to fear older women. My gorgeous mother, who is now in her 70s, has been telling me for years that she feels as if she’s disappeared. People literally don’t see her. Even celebrated beauties will bemoan the double standard they face.
Sure, disappearing after 50 might be a negative, but ponder the possibilities! Invisibility does sound intriguing. Instead of fighting the inevitable, why not embrace it? Think of the fun you can have once you’re completely transparent! You’ll be free to walk around buck naked on hot days. Hallelujah! The emperor has no clothes, and neither will you. Diets? Nothing’s skinnier than invisible. Bring on the bacon, wrap it in a flaky pastry, and top it with butter, baby. You can stop worrying if men find you pretty and focus on more important things, like cultivating your brain or taking up topless gardening. Let your wrinkles proliferate and set those gray hairs free. You’ll save a fortune on anti-aging creams and hair products. Best of all, you can finally become the woman you’ve always been without apology, explanation, or the need to hide behind the illusion of giving a rat’s ass what other people think.
In Search of That Girl
Once upon a time I was a single gal. I was wild, unfettered, and free. I was saucy. I was naughty. I was sexy. I was outrageous. I changed my hair color the way most people change socks. I wore blood-red lipstick and kohl-black eyeliner. I said whatever I wanted to say and did whatever I pleased whenever it pleased me. I had an ass off which one could bounce a quarter and a totally rockin’ bod. I could wear absolutely anything and look fabulous in it, like a super model or a 19-year-old. I could stay out all night or stay in all night and I didn’t have to answer to a single, solitary soul. I kissed the boys and made them cry. I danced on tabletops and on stages and down sidewalks in the middle of the day. I was the master of my own destiny. I was a pirate and the world was my ocean. I sailed my ship through stormy seas and through fair weather and to distant and exotic shores. I took what I wanted without shame. I had incredible adventures. Oh, yes, I did.
I was lonely, yes. I had my heart broken often. I had a knack for falling in love with the wrong kind of men. It was hard to come home at the end of a long day and have no one with whom to share my stories, but it was lovely to come home at the end of a long day and draw a warm bubble bath, crank up the stereo, and relax without distractions. It was also lovely to sleep in until noon, if I so chose. The only person I had to worry about was me. My house was impeccably clean; my pillows didn’t have holes chewed in them or juice boxes spilled on them or mysterious gray bits of what might have once been food embedded in their piping. I could eat every meal at restaurants, if I so desired, and I didn’t have to cook at all if I didn’t want to. I could decorate as I saw fit and change my decor anytime I liked. I didn’t own my home, so if something broke I could call the landlord. I worked hard and I played hard. Even though a small part of me thought maybe I should settle down, I came to a place of total peace as a single gal. I stopped looking for Mr. Right and decided I was perfectly fine without him.
Then I met a man, fell in love, got married, and had a baby. Just like that. My friends were shocked. My family was shocked. I was shocked. I guess everyone expected me to stay single forever. I guess no one, including me, could envision That Girl being a Mom. The first six months of being a wife and mother, we were living in Pittsburgh in a two-bedroom apartment outside of town. My husband was working with a man I loathed and I had no friends at all. My life had taken a U-turn so sharp I was in a state of total shock. Here I was, married and totally overwhelmed with being the caregiver for a small, mewling, needy human being. I cried. Often. Rivers, oceans, seas of tears. My life had become an endless blur of nursing, diaper changes, and baby talk. I was lucky if I could take a shower most days. I went from high heels, garter belts, and slinky dresses to overalls, nursing bras, and sweatpants overnight.
I didn’t have a creative outlet, or any outlet at all. I had no support system of women to show me what you’re supposed to do with a baby when you must take a shower, or go to the bathroom, or talk on the phone. I had no one to explain how to know when to call the doctor or when to let it ride. I had no one to watch the baby while I went out for a cup of coffee or a stroll down the sidewalk for a moment of relief from the monotony of caring for an infant 24/7.
Sometimes I handed the baby off to my husband and left. Where are you going? I don’t know. When will you be back? I don’t know. When I feel like I can do this without screaming.
I didn’t know why other women didn’t tell me the truth. Why didn’t someone explain how hard it was? How isolating it was? How stressful it was?
Can a woman be a mother and still have a room of her own? I surely tried, but I can’t say that I always succeeded.
My child has ventured forth into adulthood, and I have new challenges to face. It seems as if That Girl is a million miles away. She’s faded into the rearview mirror, replaced by the face of an aging woman. That Girl is a distant memory, along with her tight ass and her saucy, naughty, carefree attitude. I find it hard to believe she was ever me. Yet, she stares back at me, defiantly, from faded photographs.
I miss That Girl. I wish she’d come for a visit sometimes. I wish it were possible to have all that I have now and still be That Girl on occasion.
I think every woman needs to revisit That Girl sometimes.
Aging Disgracefully
The older I get, the less certain I am that I have any of the answers. I can barely remember the questions. What was I talking about again? Oh, yes, life after 50. There is life after 50, as evidenced by my ability to type this sentence. There’s more than that, though! There’s so much more! It’s not all vaginal lubricants, saggy breasts, and vitamin supplements. Even if you didn’t plan well and save a nest egg (not that I’d know about that), there are places to go and people to see. Adventures await.
Sure, the rest of the world wants you to slow down, but why let that hold you back? This is the perfect time to speed up. The next time people offer sage advice on why you need to age gracefully, feel free to remind them that how you age is none of their damn business.
In that spirit, here are seven arguments for aging DISgracefully from a woman who knows a thing or two about it. Feel free to borrow them as needed, and discard any that don’t work for you.
It’s not just the deadliest substance known to man, it’s what’s in my forehead. Don’t approve? I’d get upset, but I can’t make angry faces anymore.
2. Wine
Let’s hear it for wine! It’s what’s for dinner! It also keeps me from running off naked and screaming into the wilderness. Plus, it’s filled with antioxidants, so it’s a win-win. Don’t even think about taking my wine away. If you think I’m crazy now, you should see me without it. Or not. Probably not. Did you hear? You can buy wine in a box now! What a wonderful time to be alive.
3. Hotness
It’s true, I’m not as hot as a 20-year-old. I’m much hotter. I’m also sweaty, sleepless, and bitchy. You have a problem with that?
4. Wrinkles
Those aren’t wrinkles—they’re the sum total of my life experiences. A map without lines won’t take you anywhere, least of all anywhere interesting.
5. Gray Hair
Why do we call it gray hair? It’s not gray. Gray is such a dull color. It’s platinum! It’s silver! It’s the color of moonlight, magic, and ice!
Dear AARP, I’ll retire when I’m damn good and ready. One more invitation in my mailbox and you will be seriously sorry. Send it with a free membership to the Wine of the Month Club, then we’ll talk.
7. Eccentricity
There is a distinct difference between being crazy, bizarre, and eccentric. It is mostly measured by the amount of money in your bank account and your personal presentation. I am not crazy. I am borderline bizarre, but striving daily toward eccentricity. Here’s to the journey.
You don’t really need any excuses for aging disgracefully—it’s your prerogative. After surviving everything that’s brought you past the midcentury mark, you’ve earned the right to age in whatever manner you choose. Dive on in, sister, the water’s fine! Wear whatever damn bathing suit you please, or skinny-dip if that’s your thing.
One of the joys of aging is that our priorities change. We lift our gaze. We are freed from the pressure to be pretty. We realize that in all those years we spent worrying about what people were thinking about us, people mostly weren’t thinking about us at all. That’s a powerful revelation. We aren’t disappearing, we’re being given an opportunity to resonate on a higher frequency.
Stop Smoothing Wrinkles
Women have this thing we do. It’s our defense mechanism. It’s how we manage to get up and get moving, even when life is so unbearable that we’d rather crawl back into bed and live on wine in a box, ice cream, and cheese puffs. This thing we do is a combination of smoothing wrinkles and erasing rough edges with a heavy side dish of frantic denial. It’s a primal ache, a deeply rooted need for order in chaos and light in darkness. It can be a good thing, it really can. But sometimes I think we miss out on the richness of things because we’re in such a hurry to run from the hard stuff.
I think it’s okay to embrace the wrinkles, run our hands along the rough edges, and dive deep into the sorrow until we swim our way to the other side. I think there is a value in letting go of the need to control everything and letting life happen without judging or racing in to fix it.
Not everything needs to be fixed. It’s okay to be sad and to rest with that until we feel happy again. We just need to leave a trail of cheese puffs so we don’t get lost in there.
If cheese puffs aren’t your metaphorical thing, feel free to insert a snack treat that works for you.
But I digress. The mantra is “It’s okay. I’m okay. It’s all going to be okay.” It’s a good mantra. Still, there are aspects of being a woman over 50 that aren’t okay. It’s good to say that out loud, and to give other women over 50 the permission to do the same. Things feel less insurmountable when you realize that you’re not alone. So much of the denial of the truth holds women back.
I rarely talk about menopause or aging with my female friends. It’s not that we aren’t all struggling through it, because we are. We just don’t know how to talk about it. The few times I’ve opened that can of worms on social media, the comments have been very enlightening. You get sympathy from women who are suffering similar problems, or advice from women who will explain that you’re doing it wrong, or absolute denial from women who have no idea what you’re talking about because everything is fine and dandy in their neck of aging town. Take this supplement! Try this diet! Do yoga! Try harder! You’re doing it wrong!
I’ve been shushed, shamed, accused, and blamed for talking about weight gain, mood swings, difficulty finding work, ageism, sexism, hot flashes, and chiskers. “Good grief, don’t talk about that, in public! What’s wrong with you?” Much like the deep secrecy that surrounds puberty, periods, and pregnancy, there’s a code of silence that surrounds menopause and aging.
I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Menopause can be misery. Becoming invisible is fucking frustrating. Being undervalued is maddening. Primal brain hardwiring is extremely difficult to circumnavigate. Men don’t have to play by the same set of rules. Women over 50 are the most underemployed demographic. We are the least represented and the least served group by fashion, print, and digital media, and even pharmaceutical companies. Most of these things are managed by men, who have little understanding about what women want or need. Those are facts, but they are facts that can be changed. We have the power to change them. We can start telling the painful truth. We can stop smoothing wrinkles, stop making excuses, stop keeping secrets, and stop living in denial. Then we can begin the process of writing a new story that begins with rejecting the lies women believe.
These are the lies that make us enemies, competitors, judges, and haters of ourselves and each other. These lies are ingrained in almost every aspect of our culture. We believe we will never be good enough because that is what we are told endlessly. These lies convince us to accept our inadequacy. Our driving force becomes fixing all of the things that are wrong with us, instead of embracing all that is right. It’s the great distraction. We believe that we are less smart, less strong, less worthy, less beautiful, less powerful, and less important. After all, even the smartest, strongest women still get paid less, promoted less, and rewarded less. We are judged and in turn we judge ourselves and each other.
The lies don’t stop when we are young, they continue to evolve as we age. We’re told that being pretty and popular is what matters most when we are young. We’re told that having babies and being a “good wife and mother” is what matters most when we are fertile. We’re instructed to fade away when we reach maturity.
Women’s insecurities are, after all, a driving force of much of the world’s economy. We spend half of our lives feeling inadequate, and the other half becoming invisible.
The media and the makeup, fashion, home decor, and weight-loss industries perpetuate the lie that we are not good enough. We are told that an endless array of shiny new things will make us better, because we will never be good enough on our own. Women’s power is so threatening that it has been systematically undermined for centuries. It’s a tricky thing, because the desire for beauty, love, acceptance, and connection is intrinsic to being human. The opposing lie—that we should not sparkle, not shine, not seek attention, and not make ourselves look on the outside as Technicolor as we feel on the inside—is just another version of the same tired story. The lie is the same: We are not enough. The lie keeps perpetuating, expanding, evolving. The lie must persist; we must keep reaching for the golden ring as we go around and around on the pretty horses. Without the lie the carousel stops and the whole façade cracks.
Wait, what? That lipstick is not going to make me beautiful? Those new pants aren’t any better than those old pants? That throw pillow is not going to change my life? That diet is not going to make me happy? That magical cream is not going to fix all my problems? That cell phone is not going to make me cool?
Then comes social media, with its heady allure. Look at me! Look at me! I took another selfie! I bashed a celebrity! I shared a picture of a puppy! I like purple! I bought some shoes! Do you like me? Do you think I’m good enough? Thumbs-up! Share! Comment! Yay! It’s seductive, it’s distracting, it’s debilitating. Just keep looking for meaningless validation while we mine your data and offer it to the highest bidder.
As long as women keep believing the lies, as long as we remain distracted, we’ll be so busy chasing things with no substance there won’t be time for finding the substance within ourselves and others. If we’re not good enough, obviously no one else is. So we’ll be sure to drag them back down if they forget. The lies keep us disconnected, they keep us from rising to our potential, they keep us on the carousel.
As long as we live our lives in search of acceptance from a world that deems us “less than,” we will never become greater.
Yesterday I was chatting with my neighbor. He asked me what I do. I explained that I do a variety of things, including hosting videos, making TV appearances, writing, blogging, designing, and consulting. He expressed surprise that I worked in TV. I explained that I appeared on air at a home shopping network for 11 years, but jokingly suggested I’d aged out of that job.
He laughed, looked me right in the eye, and said, “Well, older women want to see beautiful women on TV. They don’t want to see old women.”
I paused, and thought to myself, “Did he seriously just say that to my face?”
Another man telling another woman what women over 50 really want. I have heard variations on this statement countless times from countless old and usually not even remotely handsome men, who seem convinced they have a special bead on what older women want.
Screw you and your antiquated, ageist, sexist, boring beauty standards. How dare you stand there and look me in the eye and suggest that I’m not beautiful because I’m over 50. I did not let my neighbor’s comment slide past me without a response.
I calmly and firmly replied, “I am beautiful. I am their customer. Women over 50 want to see themselves reflected on TV, in film, in magazines, and in advertising. We don’t want a 20- something beauty queen with baby smooth skin talking to us about wrinkle creams.”
I would like to report that he apologized. He did not. He stared at me slack-jawed and uncomprehending.
The truth is, it is men who want to see young women on magazine covers, in movies, on TV shows, and in advertising. Men are hardwired to be attracted to women who are fertile. Since men make most of the decisions and create most of the content, most of what is served to us is a parade of pretty, young women. When women create the content and make the decisions, the message is very different.
This is the fallacy upon which most of the current marketing and product development and content creation for women of a certain age is built. It’s a shitty foundation that lacks merit and substance. It is often so far off the mark it is baffling.
Yes, I’m pissed. I’m tired. I’m aching for someone to stop talking and to start listening.
My thoughts, my feelings, my opinions, my dollars count.
Ask me, ask us, listen to us. We know what we want and it’s not what we’re getting. We want to spend our money, so help us help you.
I have never been one of the “beautiful people,” but I have always felt beautiful. I have always known that true beauty shines from within. I’m not immune to the charms of the “beautiful people,” but I’d also like to see a generous helping of interesting people who reflect the endlessly fascinating, beautiful variations of being. I want to see myself reflected in the media. I want to challenge the current beauty standards and turn them upside down. I am not alone. I want to be able to picture myself wearing that outfit, using that wrinkle cream, riding in that car, dancing in those shoes, making that jewelry, looking saucy in that dress . . . I want to be reflected as the vibrant, sexy, smart, BEAUTIFUL woman I am at this age and will be in the years to come. I want to be cherished, celebrated, and respected.
All women do.
FIFTY, and Other F-Words . . .
The Good
Female
Fabulous
Fearless
Fantastic
Forgiving
Foxy
Feminist
Fecund
Flawless
Fierce
Fun-filled
Fancy
Free
Friendly
Fluid
Flirtatious
Fascinating
Fantabulous
Flamboyant
Fortuitous
Fulfilled
Funny
Flexible
Fortunate
Formidable
Ferocious
The Bad
Flatulent
Foggy
Flummoxed
Frazzled
Funky
Frayed
Forgetful
Fragmented
Foolish
Flighty
Fatigued
Flabbergasted
Frustrated
The Ugly
Frizzy
Fuzzy
Frumpy
Floppy
Fungal
Fecal
Foul
Feeble
Fossilized
Frozen
Frail
Fearful
Forlorn
Forgotten
Failed