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.
1. Botox
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!
6. AARP
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.
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 cre
am 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.
What Women over 50 Want
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
A woman is considered menopausal after she ceases having her periods for a year. Naturally induced menopause begins sometime in a woman’s 40s or 50s. The average age for a woman in the United States entering menopause is 51. I entered menopause at the age of 48. It could not have happened at a crappier time. I was in the middle of the worst years of my adult life. It felt as if I’d been shoved off a cliff into an endless abyss of darkness. I filled my canteen with Sauvignon Blanc and held on for dear life. I was drowning in self-doubt, debt, and despair. I was also drowning in sweat. The sweat had started a few years earlier, and not a single doctor had answers as to why I was waking up in a puddle each morning. I’d moved so many times, I didn’t have a long-term relationship with a lady doctor. My periods stopped. I was angry. I was morose. I began packing on the pounds at an alarmingly rapid rate. It wasn’t pretty, people, not by a long shot.
I’m going to be really real now, because, as I said before, I think women should tell the truth. Some women float through menopause without a care. They’ll wax poetic about how easy it was and how they survived by doing yoga and eating copious amounts of kale. The rest of us feel a deeply rooted urge to smack them senseless. There are lots of books about doing yoga and eating kale and navigating menopause with ease. This isn’t one of them. That wasn’t my experience, and it isn’t most women’s experience. This is my experience.
Welcome to More Fun with Menopause, our irregularly scheduled moment to contemplate the fun-filled symptoms of the pause that is meno!
I’d like to report that it’s been a walk in the park for lo these past couple of weeks, when the wine wears off, the amount of dark chocolate needed for maintaining the status quo exceeds my body mass, escapist vacations fade into the mists of memory, and the herbal remedy Band-Aid™ bursts like a cork in the Hoover Dam after a flash flood, but I would be lying. It has been more like a crawl through gravel, in a heat wave, while being bitten by fire ants and pummeled with baseballs.
There are moments when I’m quite sure I’m functioning at 25 percent of my normal happy capacity. There has to be a word for that. Let’s call it “happacity.” My “happacity” is normally fairly high, mostly driven by an amazing gift for forcefully shoving gently placing those dark thoughts deep into the recesses of my subconsciousness. You know, denial. It’s taken years of practice.
Based on the sad, sad confessio
nal poetry I wrote in my 20s when I received the nickname “Madge,” I have done a bang-up job of deluding convincing myself that I am generally a shiny, happy person. Most of life is perception; we become what we think. I grew weary of Depressing Feminist Poetry Madge. Besides, Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton pretty much have that market cornered, and you know how well that worked out for them. I like Glittery Uplifting Madge better. I’m fairly certain the rest of the world concurs. Yet, stalwart, irreverent, Glittery Uplifting Madge is being sorely tested by the current fuzzy-brained, tear-filled fright fest being brought on by her rapidly depleting hormones.
In other words, my happacity is in the shitter, folks.
If Depressing Feminist Poetry Madge were to write something about this current state, it would read something like this:
Crawling out of my skin,
Though impossible,
Seems the only option.
Therefore the lack thereof
Leaves me lacking
A place to hide.
Who is this stranger
Inhabiting my body?
Can I coax her out with
Vague promises of
Dark chocolate and
Wine?
Glittery Uplifting Madge would write something like this:
Hang in there, Madge-y,
(Which rhymes with Vag-y)
See how I did that?
Auntie Flo is leaving,
Soon you won’t be grieving.
This too shall pass!
No, really.
Just add glitter.
Lots and lots of glitter.
Will our plucky heroine find her happacity returning to above normal soon? How long will this emotional roller-coaster ride continue? Will regular use of an over-the-counter menopause remedy bring on brighter days? Is there enough wine in the world to keep her on the sunny side of the street? Stay tuned for the answers to these and any other questions that arise in the next episode of More Fun with Menopause.
I’m still free-falling, but I’ve grown more accustomed to the feeling. I’ve also found herbal solutions for most of the symptoms. They work well for around three weeks of each month, then, just like my cycles when I was menstruating, the fourth week is a crapshoot. Or more aptly, it’s crap. Shoot me. During my most recent lady prodding, my lady doctor recommended that I wean myself off the herbal remedies. I was incredulous! Without the benefits of any hormone-level testing or discussing my symptoms and complaints, this female doctor suggested that I should suck it up and stop taking supplements. What amazes me is that not a single lady doctor I’ve visited for my annual lady prodding since entering menopause at 48 has discussed any form of hormone replacement therapy or any solutions at all for the symptoms. My complaints have mostly been met with shrugs. The underlying message is that women should suffer in silence. I believe there is a vast menopause conspiracy.
Fifty and Other F-Words Page 2
