In my twenties, I thought 40 was old. Not older. Not middle-aged. Like dead OLD.
I assumed that by 40, women stopped having fun, started dressing entirely in beige, and spent their evenings discussing fiber. Then I turned 40 and decided 60 was old. Now that I’m almost 63, I’ve reconsidered.
Ninety is old. Possibly 95. I reserve the right to move that number again when I get there.
So, what exactly makes a woman “old”? Is it a number? The way she dresses? The length of her hair? The moment her cat-eye eyeliner stops looking sexy and starts looking like she lost a bar fight?
Society apparently has rules about these things, but no one sent me the memo.
I’ve heard that women “of a certain age” should not show their knees. This never made sense to me. What could possibly happen to your knees that would make them unsuitable for public viewing?
Then I took a yoga class.
I was in downward dog when the instructor told us to look toward our knees to make sure our eyes were in the proper position. So I looked. And somehow, I had run into another woman’s knees attached to my body.
If I were placed in front of a police lineup and asked to identify my own body parts, I honestly don’t think I could.
“Are these your knees, ma’am?”
“They’re wearing my yoga pants....I’d like to speak to an attorney.”
That’s the strange thing about getting older. It isn’t only our bodies that change. Our perception changes right along with them.
When I was younger, I looked at an older woman and saw her age. Now I look at her and wonder about the woman still living inside her.
Does she still feel 16?
Does she look in the mirror and wonder who invited her mother?
Does she still want long hair, ripped jeans, high heels, or bright lipstick—even if someone thinks she has reached the age when she shouldn’t?
I’m beginning to think “old” has less to do with a woman’s age and more to do with everyone else’s expectations of how a woman her age is supposed to look and behave.
Meanwhile, getting older is a little like becoming a chameleon. Just when I get used to the woman in the mirror, she changes…again.
I finally made peace with my neck. The next morning, I look down and discover my knees resemble the shrunken apple heads we made in Girl Scouts when I was eight.
There are days when my reflection and I stare at each other like two women who vaguely remember meeting but can’t recall where.
The oddest part is that the woman in my head hasn’t changed nearly as much as the woman in the mirror.
My mind still comes up with brilliant ideas as if my body is ready and willing to participate. It thinks we can move furniture, tear down a wall, put up a header beam, repaint the room, and have everything back together before dinner.
My body listens patiently and then says, “Absolutely. Go ahead. Let’s see how that works out for you.”
By the end of the day, I can’t stand up straight, and several body parts are filing formal complaints.
But maybe “old” isn’t an age at all.
Maybe getting older isn’t about letting go of the woman we used to be or pretending we completely recognize the woman we see now. Maybe the two of them need to work something out.
The younger woman can keep coming up with the big ideas, wearing whatever she wants, and believing she can still tackle anything. The older woman can bring the experience, better judgment, and enough Advil to get them both through the day.
They don’t have to agree on everything. They just have to share custody of the same body.
And maybe that’s what all of us are trying to do—find a way for the woman we remember and the woman we see now to get along while leaving a little room for the woman we are still becoming.
While all these versions of ourselves are working out the custody agreement, I say we make the word “old” earn its keep.
Let’s use it as our get-out-of-jail-free card.
Don’t want to help someone move?
“Sorry, I’m old.”
Don’t want to stay out past nine?
“Sorry, I’m old.”
Don’t want to attend something that sounded exhausting the moment you were invited?
“Sorry, I’m old.”
No further explanation necessary.
If society can use our age to tell us no, then we can use it to say no. That may be the one thing the younger woman and the older woman can agree on.
Meanwhile, we can wear our hair long, cut it short, wear what we want, and show our knees whenever we damn well please.
And as long as we keep moving the definition of “old” ten years ahead of wherever we happen to be, I think we’re doing just fine.
Maybe the Dolly Mama had it right all along.
Our minds think we’re 16.
Our humor says we’re 5.
And some days, our bodies are fairly certain we’re dead.
Somewhere between 16, 5, and apparently dead are the women we’ve become.
And we’re still rocking it.
❤️ joey
