Ye olde Lady

 The first time it happened to me, I was 26 years old and getting a manicure at a stereotypical nail salon where no one spoke English.

“You no look so old!”

“Huh?”

(I didn’t know 26 was old, but apparently I was too old to absorb that in our fickle, disposable society, “youth” was getting younger by the moment. ) 

“I have two kids already.  I think that I’m pretty young to have reached this milestone, no?”, I retorted, defensively.

The slim Asian manicurist had no mercy, but she stepped it back.  (Guess she wanted a better tip:)

“I thought you were much younger.  You look great!”

And thus began my never-ending battle with ageism.  Worse than my battle with the bulge, this was a war I could never win.   In fact, I just got older writing this.  So do we just become invisible and irrelevant because we are starting to decline, physically?  

When you are a young, attractive female, you don’t think about getting older.  You wake up in the morning, brush your hair, apply some make-up and “voila”, you are ready to conquer the day by stopping traffic with your “fresh-faced” beauty (though you NEVER realize this).  You are super-conscious of your looks, because that’s what people comment on.  They don’t exactly sense your intelligence, your humor or even your very real problems.  All they see is an attractive girl who seemingly has the world on a string, dangling from her designer pocketbook. You don’t have problems. How could you possibly have mortal complications,  when all eyes turn to you each time you walk into a room?  

The insane thing is that if you are lucky enough to be blessed with beauty, you don’t think you’re “beautiful”.  When you look in the mirror, your  “dysmorphic” brain focuses on your flaws and imperfections.  You feel compelled to always appear flawless.  Like a celebrity without the funds or the spas, your quest for perfection is exacerbated by what you are defined as…”A pretty girl/woman.”  Add a few “filters” and that quest becomes an obsession.   Suddenly, you’ve become what everyone has invented and the object of a lot of judgment and jealousy.  

As I got older, it was as if the universe had put me on notice with one of those sand hourglasses.  There were whispers in my ears telling me that I needed to further my career, because I wasn’t “getting any younger”.  My marriage was a sham and a nightmare.  I knew I needed to get divorced, but I was frightened and when I expressed those fears all I would hear is, “You’’ll find a great guy in a minute. You’re so pretty!”

(All I could think was that I had been even younger the first time around and obviously that didn’t go well)

Then came my 30s and I would get.

“Wow, you look so great! I know how hard it is to keep up your looks once you get to a certain age!”

I had been going through so much hell in my life that I didn’t flinch.  I felt lucky to just be functioning.  At least I still looked good.

I, finally, extricated myself from my marriage in my 30s.  Thus began the darkest period of my complicated life.  Again, no one would pity me, because people don’t sympathize with a “hot” woman going through trials (literal ones) and tribulations.  I was in a surreal situation.  

A part of me was grateful for all the challenges and obstacles I encountered, every moment for many years.  Ironically, my youth was stolen from me by court, destitution and the eternal focus on my children.  All I wanted was health, stability and peace.  Aging didn’t bother me anymore.  I just wanted to survive.  The currency of beauty is only powerful if you utilize it and I never could nor would.

Now, I’m at that age where people talk to me like I’m a walking miracle, i,e.

“Wow!  I hope I look like you when I’m YOUR age!”

or

“You must have been so gorgeous when you were young!”

and you know what?

I don’t care.

I'm just waiting for my kids to call me "she" in front of me:)

#lifebeginsat40&endsat50😂🤪