I’ve just celebrated my 34th birthday. Leading up to the date, I had to work out several times whether I was turning 33, 34, or 35, because birthdays have lost their countdown appeal as I’ve aged, and I can’t keep on top of which year I’m celebrating anymore.
It was a lush day, starting with 30 minutes of laps alone at our local pool, and a long, scalding hot shower in silence. The day followed with reading a novel tucked under covers, an adventure to a science museum, KFC chicken, and a night walk with my husband. All of it beautiful, a perfect celebration of life.
Whether it was due to my new, older age, or a series of health scares/issues over the last year, the first day of living as a 34-year-old was fraught with worrying about getting older. Namely, worrying about looking older.
Logically, I know I am neither young nor old. I’m a woman confident, yet floundering, in the middle zone, trying to figure out who I am apart from motherhood and work, what matters most in life, and how to live and love in light of imminent death one day, hopefully very far away. In another 34 years, I’ll be 68, which I still consider not ancient by any means. As I said, logically, I know I’m neither young nor old.
And yet, I feel old, maybe just older. My hands are prune-ish, thanks to a worsening auto-immune condition. My hair is thinning, and it is already so thin. The skin on my neck is starting to get that chicken effect. And several wrinkles are deepening on my face, especially two lines that look like the number 11 just in between and above my eyes.
I’ve thought about all the ways of fighting these visual elements of aging. Researched Botox. Bought collagen powder to mix into hot drinks. Smeared thick lotions and creams. Taken vitamins. Eaten healthy at times. But I could go further.
Could botox, could get hair extensions, could get elite facial products and make-up, could spend more on form-enhancing clothes, could lift weights, could buy clothes for my body shape, could get breasts enlarged, could have eyebrows and eyelashes semi-permanently put on, could nip and tuck the cesarean section hang.
I could, and many of you reading have tried any number of these things, but I haven’t yet.
On that birthday swim, I considered aging. How we (I) live in a culture that outruns the outward evidence of aging. Possibly spends hundreds and thousands delaying the inevitable. I’ve spent very little money fearing age, but I have spent time worrying about it, which is potentially worse.
Even this week, I had a little cry to my mum in our living room, about how I just wished I looked different, looked younger. I even, embarrassingly, asked her to avoid showing others photos of me she had taken on her visit to us.
I’ve wasted so much time and mental capacity worrying about this shell that contains my soul, my experiences, my beating heart, my love. I’ve not paid for it with pound coins, but I’ve paid with negative thoughts that consume my mind, robbing me of joy.
It’s not a nice way to live, constantly chastising the body for giving away its true age.
There are a few women (women who I know well) I can think of, literally only a few, who have aged with acceptance and dignity, welcoming signs they no longer look young. These women are full of empathy, of laughter, of intelligence, of warmth. Could it be, because their minds are consumed with people and things other than themselves? Isn’t this how I want to grow old?
I’m not, I’m definitely not saying everyone should think as I do. I wouldn’t ever presume that position. But I’m asking us to question why we fear looking older. Why do we spend hours and money avoiding looking our age?
To be balanced and introduce the other side of the argument, there are several studies showing the link between perceived attractiveness, self-esteem, and subjective wellbeing. Feeling like we look good is good for us. It’s nice to feel attractive and look young, and it could have repercussions on mental health, relationships, and productivity.
But when does looking young become too important? Where is the line? Is there a balance to be struck?
I’d love love love your thoughts, so do feel free to comment, both here and on my socials.
Thin Hair and 11 Lines
This really resonated today. I'm only in my late twenties and already starting to note the differences between myself and my peers. Autoimmune & other chronic illnesses have taken a toll on my appearance, and the feminist in me hates that I care. I was certain I wouldn't allow society to condition me to resent aging, but here I am, stressing about my neck *sigh*. Great piece, Lauren :)
Thick hair and 111 lines
You are young, my friend just older than you were — don’t mourn about how you look; in years to come you will look back and see your beauty. People want to see photos of others — my advice is not to stop all photo’s being shared within family & friends (except the odd really gross one maybe). I know a lady who avoids being in photos completely but I think one day she might regret this and others may too.
A sign you are young you used the Gavin & Stacey-esc “Lush"-I'm 21 years older than you and I use the word 'lovely” or “great” but then I think I always have. I to feel in the ‘not old, not young’ category. Eleven lines eh? I looked in the mirror and was not sure where to count the lines, not too many I thought, then I smiled-they were joined by many more, every facial expression change the number on view. But that’s character I thought, I wouldn’t want to be plastic faced baby-doll without expression. This face with lines, and grey hair coming through is loved and makes my granddaughter so excited when we Face Time. This face shows life, my hands look lived in and fairly worn out. This reminds me of the Velveteen Rabbit story which I first heard on the day of our wedding - The pastor a great friend of our told it and ended with something like you are truly real when your hair’s been loved off and you are a bit shabby due to a life feel of hugs.
In your Lush day was silence and alone times, reading etc — these are special because they are rare for you - Thank God for that! The noise, the hustle & bustle of life are your norm — enjoy it while it lasts! These times will pass and you will look back and see all that you did while you were young with a young family. You mention the women you know who have aged with dignity, I bet even they died their hair different colours at times and tummy trimming knickers to enhance their looks. We love these women and they have probably not considered dignity just gave in to natural inevitability of time showing on them and did the best with what they have. i don’t know if i want to grow old with dignity or disgrace — their is an bit of me wants to shock others with my waywardness but i’m not sure whether my MS will give me the choice! — i could have a luminous wheel-chair and play rock ’n’roll songs loudly where ever i go.
Thank you for your writing and how it encourages me to consider things xx