Acting my age

Invariably, when I tell people how old I am, they tell me “you look good, though.” As if women over 50 generally don’t, and so I should count my blessings.

And I do.

For starters, it has taken me years to learn to accept compliments with some sort of grace. But more to the point, given the hostility with which I have treated my body over the years - the anorexia, the marathoning through pain, the all-out working-too-much - I am eternally grateful for her loyalty and commitment to us, to me. We are one, after all, and she’s been holding up her end of the stick much more consistently than my unwieldy mind.

But I am more and more rejecting the ageism in those comments and their echo in my thoughts. Shouldn’t beauty be about how we feel? How much love we share? How much joy we contain? I know the answer to this question, and I also know how hard it is to stand outside the culture that ranks female beauty by tightness of skin, perkiness of breasts, and shininess of hair. And that’s not even entering into the complicated territory of internalized fatphobia, which my amazing Gen Z child routinely (and correctly) calls me on.

I can’t say that I don’t feel the tug of youth-as-beauty. It is pervasive, almost automatic, and it takes mindfulness and presence to return to the present:

This body gives me joy. I love this body. I am this body. I love me.