A CALL TO (SEMI-TONED) ARMS

It’s my birthday month, and I can be as superficial as I want to.

***

Last year, I was on a family cruise that rounded the Iberian peninsula. In Malaga, while walking through the main shopping street, I was stopped in my tracks by an ad of this woman posing for a Spanish clothing brand. I stared. I was so enamored by her silver hair, her bare face, her lines. I took a photo for keepsake. I am going to be like her one day, I thought. Audacious, bold, unapologetic about aging.

As I walked on, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection. I grimaced at the hypocrisy of my thoughts. Because just the day prior, searching for something to do in the ship, I attended a talk called How to Look 10 Years Younger. I expected to hear the same tips spouted by every wellness professional: eat well, drink green juice, exercise. Instead, what I heard were unfamiliar words: dysport, restylane, thermage. I half-listened; these were injections and other what-nots of intervention, apparently, to “refresh” one’s face. I glanced around the room — women in their 60s and 70s asking lots of questions. I politely waited; I didn’t want to be the smug 40ish-year old who snuck out early.

At the end of his talk, the doctor offered a free consultation to each of the participants. Why not? I thought. I have nothing better to do.

“Just here for the free consult.” I shrugged, unsure of where to take the conversation.

He asked how old I was. Then he took in my face. He said, “Congratulations. If it weren’t for your forehead, I would never have guessed you were in your 40s.”

I was mortified. Echoes of forehead . . . forehead rung in my ears. I couldn’t fully focus on what he said next, “Dysport. . . just a few units . . . will subside in a few months.” “Let’s do it,” I blurted, faster than he could say 20% discount.

After that incident, and as I burrow further into my 40s, I’ve been thinking a lot more about aging. About how I’ve been cowering from it; how I’ve been almost embarrassed by it. How I practically judge myself for it, like aging is an illicit thing I shouldn’t be doing. Sure, I treasure the metaphysical benefits of aging — the wisdom, the confidence, the self-assurance that comes with it. But I still cannot, for the life of me, fully relax in the fact of aging.

Academics have long talked about how happiness through adulthood is U-shaped: that it declines through our 20s and 30s, hits the absolute shit pits (ok, not in their words) in our 40s, then finally curves upwards when we turn 50. From this vantage point (which is at the theoretical rock bottom of this curve), I cannot disagree. The 40s is a moment of potent transition for a woman; a sliver of time sandwiched between youthful good looks and its corresponding promise on one side, and post-menopausal acceptance and contentment on the other. We, women, don’t consciously delight in this phase. Rather, we hunker down and just get through it. If we had it our way, we’d stay in our 30s until enough pressure builds up to catapult us straight to 52 where the trajectory of happiness is infinitely positive.

I think a large part of this unsettledness has to do with how we start to look. The nuances of physical alteration in our 40s and how it impacts our happiness deserves its own commentary that, I feel, hasn’t been given its due place in the dialogue of human development.

A key aspect of being in this space is the abruptness of it all. Without warning, there is this sudden disconnect between our mental and physical states. Our brains haven’t registered that we’re out of our 30s omnipotent phase; our bodies, on the other hand, have very well moved on. Our minds are zeroed in on the high-waisted jeans; our waists are saying not a chance. Our eyes are zeroed in on the good-looking stranger; our mirrors are saying could be your son. We sprout whole sections of gray overnight. A subtle layer of softness has sprung over yesterday’s toned arms. Last week’s cheekbones have plunged into the jowl area.

To add insult to injury, our bodies refuse to cooperate as it did just a few years ago. It’s become like driving a car with a loose wheel — we can try to steer it towards a certain spot, but there are no guarantees we will get there. Only recently, if we gained weight, a little starvation here and a few laps there would make things all better. Now, a little starvation here and a few laps there triggers the stress hormone called cortisol to be released into the blood stream that subsequently causes fat to accumulate in our bellies and stay there for ever and ever no matter what you do guddamit amen.

In case we think we may be imagining things, a daily stream of microaggressions confirms our fears. Our sisters tell us that the fancy earrings we’re wearing are “too young”. Strangers mistake our 28-year old sister to be our daughter [editor’s note: @*$%!!]. Our doctors remind us of the fermenting of our organs; that we should start with the mammograms, accept our eggs are “mature”, read up on implications on fertility, start thinking of alternatives, and hurry hurry hurry!

Equally as troubling to these verbal assaults, particularly for single women, is that we suddenly cease to exist. Being in bars, parks, the subway — basically, anywhere we used to meet men — becomes tantamount to being a woman in a gay club: NOBODY is checking you out.

If managing this physical transformation is difficult, managing it in this age of social media is a nightmare. With the pervasiveness of selfies, we are losing our collagen at precisely the time being photogenic has become vital. Dwarfed underneath the tsunami of camera-ready millenials, we could be ushered out of relevance far quicker than any of the generations before us.

And so,

this is where I call out to The Sisterhood.

We can let the 40s beat us back into hiding. We can deny this time, cower from it, or be embarrassed by it.

Or

We can link arms and stand our ground.

We can claim this special, extraordinary sliver of time as a thang and step into it with boldness and purpose.

We can acknowledge it in our conversations and share stories, to remind each other we are not alone.

We can be the biggest cheerleaders of our trailblazer sisters who choose to go natural and celebrate their grays or their laugh lines. They’re the equivalent of the girls in 5th grade who wore bras first and gave the rest of us the breathing room to finally wear ours.

At the same time, we can also accept the various choices of others and understand we are all just doing our best. (read: we can be gentle with each other when, in a moment of weakness, a sister gives in to dysport.)

And we can learn to audaciously and unapologetically love the changing bodies that we are in. Keep them healthy and the best version of themselves at this age — all while mothering our tween and teenage children, daughtering our ailing parents, managing our homes, and captaining our industries. This way, we can show the future generations that THIS is what the 40s looks like, and we will have you know, that it is hashtag-guddam-beautiful.

 

***

I would love to hear your thoughts.  Please comment in the section below.

You can also subscribe here for the latest updates!