The other day, someone had the temerity to inform me that I’m going grey. I’m not yet 30. And I’m going grey. Immediately my mind spiralled to the devastating consequences of this reality. I panicked. I grew despondent. I equated my grey hair with old age, and my old age with imminent demise. I looked at my life and regretted how little I’ve accomplished. I railed against the reality of my greying hair and pleaded with the goddesses to give me more time.
Fortunately, my plunge into the pit of despair was forestalled by the realisation that I’m not alone.
I was told of my treacherous grey hairs around the same time as my friend Bev told me how, recently, several of her friends have begun dating ”younger women”. She described the challenges these women were facing with their own perceptions and assumptions. They are vibrant, impressive, powerful women with a lot to be proud of — and every reason to be confident in themselves. But for whatever reason, faced with the prospect of being seen naked by someone 20 years their junior, their insecurities took over.
Bev’s empathy helped me imagine the fears and questions these relationships were raising for her friends. I could make up their dialogue in my mind, women looking in the mirror asking themselves: ”Why would she want me? Me with my wrinkling skin and ÂÂsagging breasts. So what if I look ‘good for my age.’ I’m still my age. What would this woman in her 20s, with the taut, smooth skin of youth, find attractive in me?”
And it got me thinking about how very unfair we women are to ourselves. About ourselves.
When I look at my lover, I don’t see whatever flaws she insists are there. I see this gorgeous, talented, funny, athletic, strong woman who (for some reason that I’ll never understand and will forever be grateful for) finds me attractive.
But when I look at myself, I don’t think: ”I’m almost 10 years younger than she is. She should be count herself lucky that I find her attractive.” Not at all.
And I don’t tell myself: ”I’m an educated, thoughtful, hard-working woman. She should love me for my mind.” Nope.
I look at my floppy breasts and my flabby legs (and my greying hair!) and think, well, I know why she’d think I’m smart. But how on earth could she ever think I’m attractive?
But amazingly, and fortunately for me, she does.
So what is it about body image? Particularly for us thoughtful, progressive, status-quo challenging women who really do ”know better”. Why do we still buy the hype?
I’m frustrated by the implication that younger women would, by nature, be less attracted to older women. And the notion that if an ”older” woman is attracted to a ”younger” woman, there is something wrong with that. Where is ageism, and lookism, in our list of prejudices that we need to confront in ourselves and in society?
As my own reaction to my greying hair can testify, I’m as age-obsessed as the next woman. But why? What good does that, or all the other ways in which I’m self-conscious about my body, do me?
Bev sent me a text message the other day, saying ”gosh us older women are concerned about the onset of age”. Some of it may be that, as we age, we’re more worried about other people finding us less attractive or strong or whatever. But really, we’re our own worst ageists. We’re the ones who are worried about getting older.
We worry in part because we fear losing the functionality and flexibility and health of youth. And also because we think everyone else is looking at us askew for ageing. Or having a wrinkled neck.
Or saggy breasts. They’re not.
But we’re so busy judging ourselves, it’s no wonder we assume ÂÂeveryone else must be doing it to us.
As Susan Gilman points out in Kiss My Tiara, even Cindy Crawford has her breasts airbrushed in magazines. Yes, they enlarge them. My apologies, Cindy, if you’re reading this. I don’t mean to be crass. But as best as I can tell, it’s pretty much your job to have perfect breasts (among other things). So if Cindy Crawford doesn’t have perfect breasts, even though it’s her job, why do all the rest of us waste any time at all worrying that we don’t look perfect enough?
Without getting into the much bigger societal questions of the sexualisation of advertising, the objectification of women, the globalisation of ideals of beauty and all that, something really basic is happening to us individually when we look in the mirror. Until we stop judging — and objectifying — ourselves (and one another), can we really expect everyone else to stop?