I quit smoking years ago, and I was concerned that I would gain weight and my size two would fall by the wayside (which it did, as I seemed to have replaced nicotine with cheesecake and carbs). I asked my “loving” partner, “What happens if I gain weight?” His reply: “I’ll buy you cigarettes." I wish that was a fictional statement, but it’s not. No man thinks “Will you still want me/love me if I’m fat?” No. The majority of men give no thought to the crow’s feet taking root around their eyes, their laugh lines or the deep purple veins that spider web across their legs.
As I age, I want to be pleasant about it. I don’t want to be bitter at all. I know that seeing middle age and beyond is a privilege, as I have had lifelong friends that didn’t have the opportunity to live as long as I have already. One died following a somewhat brief, yet violent battle with cancer, leaving behind two young children and another lost her life in snippets as ALS wracked the nerve cells in her body, eventually suffocating her. She too, left behind a young child, now forced to remember her tenacious mother in photographs. I try not to take aging for granted; I try not to dread it. But some mornings, when I look in the mirror, and the 26-year-old who lives in my brain sees this 40-something face, confusion ensues.
Why are there no anti-wrinkle creams for men? If men have gray hair, they are deemed distinguished, desirable. Men are said to have sex well into the golden years of their lives, so why is it assumed women are dried up and lack any desire for sex after “a certain age?" Men can gain 50 pounds, and no one bats an eye as the hairy beast lays and snores. Am I less desirable because I am thicker than some women, and probably all women by media’s standards? I have gestated and birthed a gaggle of children: it’s a miracle that I don’t weigh 400 pounds, and that I still have hair. Now as I’m nearing the halfway point of my “f” word decade — my fourth decade, and am missing my uterus, and according to my faithful OB/GYN, sporting a newly constructed, pristine vaginal cuff. He explained that this new vaginal cuff neatly connects the recently incised muscles in my pelvic floor, but since I have no focus in my mid-forties, all the vaginal cuff talk made me think about was hemming trousers. And “at this age,” Kegels are my friend.
I try to keep up and maintain a healthy lifestyle. Take the stairs, not the elevator, eat this, not that. But I spend the majority of my days tightly wound, trying not to strangle anyone, and it’s hot everywhere. Sweat glands have taken up residence in parts of my body where I didn’t know sweat could exist. How often do you see a middle-aged man sitting in a meeting, red-faced and fanning himself? I try to do yoga. A weekly reminder pops up on my phone telling me to go, but most often it’s ignored because I’m incessantly tired from both menopausal sleep deprivation and the snoring he-beast. Frankly, I’m more zen while eating chocolate peanut butter Haagen- Daaz with a good book or binge watching "Homeland" than I am in downward facing dog. As for a healthy diet, fresh fruits and veggies, though I love them, leave me famished, something a plate of pasta would never do to me. Some days I wonder “What’s the point?” Other days I’m googling numbers for local doctors who do botox.
I’m supposed to accept that this is all OK? That the standards of beauty and desire imposed upon my psyche are valid? For years I’ve threatened to stop shaving and to stop wearing makeup on the principle of time alone. In my fourth decade, how many days/weeks have I spent in my life thus far shaving my legs or standing in front of the mirror applying makeup? When I am finished, I don’t feel any better. I’ve just wasted time that I could’ve spent doing something else. Ok, maybe I feel a little better, but makeup or no, I am still self-conscious. There are the crow’s feet which now shroud both eyes, my right eye has developed a significant droop and concealer doesn’t really conceal the black, under eye circles that I have and does nothing to hide my muffin top, so what’s the point? It’s expected. That’s the point. I talk a good game, but I’m fearful to veer too far from the norm. In my soul, the bottom line is that I crave to be loved for who I am, thinning hair and all. Multiple pregnancies seemed to have leached the calcium from my once sturdy, gorgeous teeth and I now fear one day a balding, jack-o-lantern face will greet me when I look in the mirror.
I can remember watching my great-grandmother quilt on the front porch in the summers. I also remember the long black whiskers that sprouted from her upper lip, chin and sagging turkey-like neck. I was befuddled at why she had more facial hair than my father. As it turns out, I too, have been afflicted with black whisker syndrome. Tweezers and trimmers are my friend in this decade. The 5 o’clock shadow was a huge turn on for me, until it was my own. I have to keep them at bay lest my teenage daughter start pointing them out in line at Chipotle. I just pray that should the jack-o-lantern be looking back at me one day that it doesn’t also have a full beard.
No woman is happy with her body. When a woman looks in the mirror she sees the wrinkles, the sag, the stretch marks — she focuses on the flaws, blind to the beauty that resides there. I hope others don’t see me the way that I see myself. But most women have that one attribute that builds their confidence, something that makes them feel good. My prized attribute had always been my bottom- OK, my ass. To make it sound sexier it just has to be ass…and I had a good mouth, full lips that could make a near-perfect pout. Anyway, a couple of months ago, I realized it had happened. I turned in the full length mirror to get a glimpse of my ass in a cute, little, black thong and there it was…mom butt. I could say mom ass, but the sexy is gone. Where a once nice, voluptuous ass had been, flat mom butt had taken over. How the hell did that happen? And those full, semi-pouty lips, well they’re in desperate need of some collagen. And my breasts — oy vey! That $50 contraption from Victoria’s Secret that allows me to fool those around me into thinking that in the decade of my forties, my boobs still have some life left in them — well, it’s trickery. The breasts have betrayed me.
I have never heard a man say “How does my ass look in these jeans?” I have never heard men chatter about cellulite when they’re parked around their salads at lunch time. I’ve never heard it because it doesn’t happen. While I know that men have their insecurities whether they verbalize them or not, outside of obsessing over penis size, men are fairly confident creatures. Have you ever heard men talk to each other about not wanting to be naked in front of their partner? No. Men run around their houses nude, grunting like neanderthals. The hairy beasts that we live with and that roam around us don’t have the pressure to look a certain way. There are no plus sizes in the men’s department.
As females we are raised to believe…indoctrinated to believe that at “a certain age” we are to dress a particular way, cut our hair into a short, traditional helmet style, and lose interest in sex. Well, I call bullshit. Bullshit on all of it. Who is society to tell me if I have a sex drive or not? And if at any point in the next two or three decades you should see me out and I’m wearing anything with embroidery or Disney characters, take me out, put me out of my misery. I don’t need to wear the names of my grandchildren on my bosom, little plaques for the house and handmade sun catchers in the kitchen window will do just fine. I want to be the horny old broad, wearing the obnoxious jewelry and the bright red lipstick, laughing boisterously over wine or whiskey with her girlfriends, or hiking 100 miles of the Appalachian Trail for her 70th birthday.
I’m aging. It’s inevitable, and it’s a privilege. So, when I’m standing naked in the bathroom, sucking in my gut although there’s no one around, maybe I’ll finally say screw it. I’m letting the self-consciousness go. Maybe I’ll go so far as to toss the mustache trimmer that’s hidden in my cosmetic bag. I doubt I’m that ballsy, and I’ll take the self-consciousness one day at a time. But nevertheless, I’m going to love this body, every day, even the fat rolls and the wrinkles. What makes women beautiful, reaches far beyond what is seen. As women, let’s collectively learn to embrace that and give the proverbial finger to the expectations of society, and just love ourselves.
