This morning I emailed something to Elle. I'd been asked to submit a small piece and, as always, the moment I sent it off, I started obsessing. Would it be good enough? Was I too honest? Is it what they wanted, blah blah blah...Why do we do this? Because once you've obsessed, panicked and written, it really is rather lovely to see your name in print. I wrote the following (unedited) essay on growing older for Elle's August 2011 issue. I thought I'd been too honest at the time, but once you decide to go the confessional route, there really is no going back. Anyway, I'm 43 now and it still hold true.
On Growing Up, Not Old
The only things I miss about my 20s are my thighs and my ovaries.
The only things I miss about my 20s are my thighs and my ovaries.
My
thighs are more flab than fab and fertility, let me tell you, is a bitch in
your 40s. But as for the rest. I’m glad I’m here. I’m really glad I’m here.
I remember when my mom turned forty, it was a big deal, she had a
Ladies Lunch at home and my dad arrived to propose a loving toast to her. I was 13. When I turned 40 we threw a raucous
party, with 80s music, and I wore a tiara, a too-tight bustier and masses of black,
sequin tulle. We ate oysters. And drank too much. My husband gave me two Nurofen and a litre of water before I went to sleep. I still woke
up with a hangover. But grateful I had neither children nor babysitters to
consider. In celebrating my 40th birthday, I had become the
20-something I had always wanted to be. I was less insecure, more in love,
happy in my career, delighted with our travelling lifestyle and (more)
comfortable with my body than I had ever been before. I was rocking. Dancing to
Tainted Love and Rock Me Amadeus when you (finally) have big breasts and no longer
have teenage acne will do that to you. Momentarily. But the euphoria does wear
off. Especially when the Clomid kicks
in and you find you’ve progressed from recreational to procreational sex. And
when you realize how much it’s costing you to just hang in there. Because while
you once proudly proclaimed that you intended growing old disgracefully, you didn’t
mean this to be in the physical sense. So in addition to the once-monthly facials,
pedicures and obligatory waxing, there is also the hair colour and cut every
four weeks. And while I’m not exactly the poster girl for plastic surgery, I do
admit to having a bit of work done. Let’s just say that Botox is a beautiful thing. There is also regular
acupuncture and therapy but I consider those to be a necessity no matter what
your age.
But I don’t feel old. I might be less fit than I once was and I may
weigh substantially more than I once did. But I don’t feel like a ‘grown-up’,
whatever that may be. I’m just happier than I’ve ever been before. Which
doesn’t mean that I’m never sad, or no longer insecure, but it does mean that I
now know that I can contain these emotions, even embrace them if I can learn
from the experience, and that they too, will, like everything else, soon pass.
I sometimes wonder how much of my present state of mind can be attributed to my
age, or if it does, in fact, not have more to do with the man I married. A man,
not afraid of complexity, a man who embraces all that I am. I do believe he
deserves more credit than the inevitable chronological markings of time. But it
is the passage of time and the experiences enjoyed and endured that define me.
Now in my 40s I am more comfortable with my own sexuality. It used to
frighten me when I was younger and this, coupled with an intense shyness,
prohibited me from enjoying the company of boys and men as much as my friends
seemed to do. Whereas now, I am free to flirt without intent, I’m also
comfortable in my own skin, which allows me to get closer to theirs. I like
men, both straight and gay, young and old, I find them fascinating, mysterious,
surprisingly vulnerable and extremely funny. I like their company and I like knowing
that they like mine. But it is The Sisterhood that I treasure most of all.
Throughout the years I have managed to surround myself with a group of strong,
inspiring women who thrive on meaningful engagement as much as they like to
open a celebratory bottle of Cap Classique or put the kettle on for a
sympathetic cup of tea. They can all laugh raucously and rudely, but also weep
at injustice. They are all kind.
I learned a long time ago that the two prerequisites of a great lover or friend is firstly are they kind and secondly do they make you laugh. Now that kind of wisdom comes with experience, and experience, always, trumps a tight butt and flawless skin.
I learned a long time ago that the two prerequisites of a great lover or friend is firstly are they kind and secondly do they make you laugh. Now that kind of wisdom comes with experience, and experience, always, trumps a tight butt and flawless skin.
Stunning! Stunning! Stunning!
ReplyDeleteBeing forty IS fabulous, isn't it. Wonderful piece, Sam.