Figment of My Cogitation

I was never going to write about this topic, I swear. It’s been done to death and when you realize where I’m going, your eyes are going to roll so far back in your head, they might never return to normal. Especially if you are a man. In fact, if you are a man, you might want to bail now. Go watch the game or something.

The subject is women’s self-image.

I know. I could smack me. The covers of any 20 women’s magazines you can pick at random will address some aspect of how miserable women are with the way we look, while simultaneously filling its pages with photos that contribute to that insecurity. The feminist in me has no patience for it at all. But then there’s the inner 16-year old, who clearly has a lot of work left to do because she’s been in a huge uproar since yesterday when…

I watched myself on videotape for over an hour.

This is totally my friend Dan’s fault. He’s a blogster in his own right and in a recent post, he took the unusual approach of interviewing himself, to which I responded by offering to interview him with my own set of questions. We finally got our timing coordinated yesterday and committed the questions, answers, and laughter to videotape. We had a great time, and over beers afterward, we reviewed the tape he’d made. This is when the trouble began.

I tried hard to watch the interview objectively. Barring that, I’d like to have been able to focus on Dan’s responses to my probing queries. But it was hard to hear him over the noise in my head.

Is that really my nose? (I never see my nose from the side and was appalled to discover that my silhouette has a lot more in common with my late mother’s than I’d like. Note to self: never allow photography or videography to catch me in profile again.)

Damn, look at those creases around my mouth. Is it Restylane or Botox that works best on those? Maybe Botox is for the frown line between my eyebrows. And look, even my legs have freckles! Why didn’t I stay out of the sun in the 70s? Do the circles under my eyes always look that dark or is it just the lighting? What the hell is happening with my hair? And is my upper arm jiggling?

I am 47 years old. And this line of thinking is a poor use of my mind power. So why can’t I stop?

I’ve read that we Baby Boomers are particularly obsessed with trying to stay young, long after time has dragged us kicking and screaming into our Middle Ages. We’re so self-absorbed, so frantic to avoid aging and mortality that we spend zillions of dollars on creams, fitness memberships, cosmetic surgeries and procedures to stave off the inevitable. And how’s that workin’ for us?

On a good day, I feel pretty pleased with the shape I’m in, much of which I owe to genes and healthy eating habits, along with the daily walks the dogs make me take. Following my mother’s good example of caring for herself for her own satisfaction, I usually throw on a little makeup, clothes that match, and make sure my hair isn’t doing anything scary before I leave the house. Some people tell me I look younger than my age, although I can’t vouch for their motives. But even on that good day, the internal litany of complaints goes on.

Stomach too squishy. Cellulite on the backs of my thighs. Feet need a pedicure. Old lady skin starting to gather around my knees. More old lady skin wrinkling on the backs of my hands. Breasts…oh, never mind.

If I thought this was my own special neurosis, while the rest of you were waltzing through your 40s and beyond feeling absolutely fabulous, I’d keep it to myself. But it’s not. I know where our insecurities come from, and that analysis has also been done to death. I’m more interested in how to get beyond it.

I’ve seen a few different models of how American women age and I don’t love any of them. One is to give up, eschewing physical attractiveness as being either out of reach or no longer important. Another is my approach: a little effort, undermined by a lot of self-criticism for no longer resembling a college student. There’s the Joan Rivers look — ’nuff said. And then there’s the “screw you” attitude, which comes across as bravado. These women sound confident, but their tone is a tad strident. This is what 47 looks like, they might say. If you don’t like it, screw you. Methinks she doth protest too much.

Where, oh where, can I find an American woman who is aging gracefully?

My guess is she’s not blogging about it because she’s simply doing it. It’s a non-issue for her. So in a bit of a departure, I’d like to read your comments about women you’ve known who moved through the various stages of their lives, still looking lovely but not clinging to the beauty of the previous stage. You must know at least one. Bonus points if you can figure out how she does/did it.

Meanwhile, I’m going to send the inner 16-year old to her room until she can speak to me in a nicer tone.