Embracing the Enemy
I cannot recall when exactly I became aware of its daunting presence. There is no specific day or time when the great villain manifested before me. But a memory from a freshman year theatre class sticks out to me, during which a fourteen year old classmate refused to over exaggerate her smile during a scene. Smiling wide “gives you wrinkles' ', she explained as though it was the most obvious reason for her hesitation to participate. Her matter of fact tone echoed my mothers warning that you cannot walk late alone after sunset and that you should not speak to strangers over the internet. She justified her action as though it was an obvious rule that protected you.
And at that moment, the gap that separated my friends and my mother, who endlessly cycled through box dye as an antidote to inescapable gray hair, slowly began to close.
There are many things that are inherent to being a woman: many argue that there is a natural desire to care, a biological requirement of pain in child rearing, and a vulnerability to certain dangers. But the older I get I find myself pondering if nostalgia joins this list of inescapable truths of womanhood. We are bound to live according to lotions and diets and regimes that attempt to reverse the clock so we can regain that glow of youth.
To be young is to be beautiful. The possibility for debate of this clause is nearly non-existent. I ask you to look at any ad in any beauty store that has ever stood on earth. Marketed to us are any and all strategies to avoid the natural process of aging. Amongst advertisements of Retinoids, vitamins, and Botox are the encouragement to defeat the one greatest enemy for women: time.
“If the fountain of youth is destined to run out, let it run dry.”
The fears against aging are presumed to be an issue for your late twenties. Yet the marketing scheme of beauty brands make sure that you never escape their vernacular that expresses aging anxiety. Formulas should lift, plump, and reverse. I know soon enough I will be expected to purchase tiny bottles that will smooth out the evidence of my stomach aching laughs with friends, our disturbed frowns on night outs, and the days I spent in the sun. It is not only normal but expected of women to spend hundreds of dollars in order to scramble at any remnants of our past selves. The multi-million dollar beauty industry is one that feeds off of insecurity caused by the inevitable. Chemicals are cures; they can aid consumers in the art of aging “backwards”, whatever that means, as if one can maintain their memories and earned wisdom while still showing no evidence of the years they lived.
This attitude suggests that the fear of aging is entirely superficial, which of course, is not true. This dilemma is far deeper than plain vanity. My nostalgia for my youth is less about the physical evidence of my increasing age and more about my decreasing value, my ability to live “freely”, my desirability. The young woman is the epitome of womanhood—she is everything a woman should be. These are your prime years; and both your spirit and appearance during the most desirable years of your life are understood to have an expiration date. The world treats young women as a time-sensitive commodity. Our superficial look is understood to be related to our worth—to look young is to hold onto the attractive spirit you had in your developmental years. As if another piece of a woman’s value withers away with every year.
“I might just begin to appreciate ... what wisdom has come along with each perceived imperfection.”
In attempting to understand the dual definition of becoming “old”, I can only conclude that it is actually an avertible paradox. While society will always desire the appearance of a young woman, her attributes are not necessarily reflective of our inner personality. I am beginning to realize that as the clock ticks and I begin to look less and less like the photos of my 15 year old self, I do not have to believe that I am all of a sudden less fun. The longing for the supposed “best years of our life” does not have to cause us perpetual insecurity and sadness.
If the fountain of youth is destined to run out, let it run dry. How beautiful it will be to let years pass and to remember my girlhood with fondness rather than longing. Perhaps I shall try to interpret my nostalgia as love for the years I had lived rather than a disappointment with the imminent future. Instead of beginning to concern myself with how I could ever fit into my teenage wardrobe or over analyzing the spf I purchase, I might just begin to appreciate the present and what I can enjoy currently, wrinkles and sun spots and weight aside. And better yet, what wisdom has come along with each perceived imperfection.
I am making a statement against the expected fears of aging and growing old. Instead I will lay in the sun for hours on end. I will swim in the lake with no concern for the damage it will do to my hair and I will treat my sun burns and bruises as skin-deep mementos rather than eventual imperfections. I will eat cake and drink wine and learn to do my taxes and spend money on Sunday adventures instead of serums. Frown at my own mistakes and wrinkle my forehead at ridiculous stories swapped on couches. Smile wide without the looming threat of wrinkles. And I will laugh.
Laugh again.
Laugh some more.
Image Credits
Photoshoot/Creative idea/Editing: Nathalie Gotz
Model: Sofia Marcangeli
Editing help: Michael Passler
