I’m no longer young, but not yet old. Middle age is a kind of limbo I’m only just beginning to understand.
I’m 46 and I’ve never really thought about age. I have always ascribed to the ‘you’re only as young as you feel’ attitude. Until now. And I’m starting to get a little annoyed about it.
Annoyed my social media channels are serving me ads about botox and anti-ageing solutions. Annoyed the face I see in the mirror isn’t the one I see in my head. Annoyed there is such a disparate representation of women in their late 40’s in the culture. Annoyed about the unreasonable expectations placed on women when it comes to their appearance.
But what I’m most annoyed about, is that I’m thinking about it at all.
We all know the media has been pressuring women with unrealistic and unfair physical standards since, well, forever. I’m no supermodel, but I’ve always had a healthy self-image and never spent a great deal of time concerned about my looks. Sure, like most women, there are things about my body that I’d like to change. I don’t love my nose, I’d like fuller lips, thicker hair and thinner thighs. But these aren’t issues I’ve ever laboured. Yet now as I look in the mirror, alongside my image is a negative self critique. I look at photos of myself and that’s not what I think I look like. I’m starting to look, well, old.
As a society we are conditioned to judge girls and women on their appearance — objectification is a part of every women’s life experience. As young girls, from the first time someone comments on the way we look (positive or negative) it is embedded in our internal circuitry that appearances matter. As we grow older, that messaging can become even louder.
“She’s had so much work done, she looks weird.”
“Oh gosh, she’s not ageing well at all.”
These commonly heard messages (and everything in between) are the reason why, when I look in the mirror, I unconsciously pick apart my own reflection. What is a 46 year old woman supposed to look like? But more importantly, how do I reprogram myself not to care?
I’m no longer going out seeking to attract a partner (my husband has a biased view of my looks). I don’t work in entertainment, fashion or beauty, so how I look isn’t important to my career. I’m not sitting here wishing I was back in my 20’s, nor do I dislike getting older. I like myself far more now than I did then. I feel more content, wiser, more self-aware, and have a deeper appreciation for my life and what's in it. Yet that niggling feeling persists.
Is it because we live in a culture where youth and beauty equal value and I now find myself excluded from that equation?
I no longer have the glowing, wrinkle-free, youthful look of my 20’s. I’ve got crows feet, loosening skin around my eyes and my neck is teetering on turkey territory. I can see the sun spots, freckles, and pigmentation — all long-term effects of too many summers spent outdoors in the blazing Queensland sun. And it’s not just my face. Since having my kids, which also coincided with me hitting my 40's, my body isn’t what it used to be either. Muscle tone, hello, where have you gone?
I’m not yet near menopause, so I’ve still got enough collagen to hang in there and try to hold off the ageing process for a little longer. And if I added a few more weights into my fitness routine I could probably entice a little bit of muscle tone back too.
But what’s the point in trying to erase the effects of a life well-lived? Why are those lines on my face treated with such contempt instead of admiration and pride? Where is the point I give up trying to hold onto that youthful facade and accept my ageing for what it is? An inevitable part of life.
I’ll admit I’ve been tempted to try botox, but I can’t seem to reconcile getting needles poked into my face. I have no judgement of women who decide it’s for them. In fact, the older I get the more I understand exactly why they’re doing it. Instead, I’ve upped my skincare game. No longer just the 2-step cleanse and moisturise of my 20’s, with an occasional apricot scrub. We’ve added in quite a few more steps since then. Welcome: AHA exfoliants, vitamin C serum, face oil, peptides, hyaluronic serum, clarifying mask, hydrating mask, sunscreen and the all-important hand cream (I now understand why old ladies always have a tube in their handbag). I’ve finally realised the importance of looking after my skin, keeping it healthy and out of the sun (I’m also no longer a v-neck girl, favouring the more sun-smart crew neck).
I feel like there is this tipping point where you go from no longer young to definitely old. In between is this middle-aged limbo I now find myself. I imagine what awaits is a face full of wrinkles and a glorious head of silver hair, accompanied by a sense of freedom from no longer having to keep up appearances.
These are all ideas and questions I’m still pondering. I don’t have the answers yet. But for now, I’ve come to the conclusion there’s a reason they call it the ‘ageing process’. Like any process it’s something that you have to work through, a series of steps you have to take to achieve a particular end.
And maybe that end is acceptance.
Acceptance that you can’t turn back the clock, instead be present and embrace what lies ahead. Acceptance that my appearance doesn’t define me, my actions do. Acceptance that I am the narrator of my life story, not society. I get to decide where my value lies.
After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
