Am I getting old...?

I no longer look in real life how I think I look or how I think I should look. And I don't like it.

I feel like I am teetering on the edge of ageing, carefully balanced between youthfulness and middle-age, knowing the scale can only tip in one direction no matter how much pressure I apply. Some days I don’t care about ageing. I’m only here once so why should I waste precious time worrying about the way I look? Other days I pick at my every last imperfection, analyse every line, pull back my face to momentarily erase the effect of getting older all whilst worrying about how I will look in years to come. Before I know it, I’m googling local Botox practitioners, eager for a quick fix to solve my ageing dilemma, full of vanity and the desperation of a shiny face. I’m permanently on the fence between these two thoughts and I don’t know which way on any given day I’m going to fall.

I look back at old photos, the freshness of youth radiating back at me, a face free of lines and creases, no hint of a sleepless night. Now I wake up avoiding mirrors, not wanting to face the reality that will stare back at me: tired puffy eyes, emerging creases, adult spots. I no longer look in real life how I think I look or how I think I should look. My face is adjusting to its thirty-three years of life on this planet. And I don’t like it.

Before the thirties hit

I’m guilty of comparing myself to others. And these others aren’t always Instagram influencers or celebrities; they are normal people like me.

She’s my age, why do her eyes not crinkle when she smiles?

She isn’t much older than me, how does she stay looking so fresh?

What’s her skin care regime? Maybe she has regular facials or Botox?

It’s probably genetics. Lucky bitch.

The reality of societal pressure

We live in a world where women are under pressure to look young for as long as possible, where women are praised for their looks, where the main focus of a woman is how beautiful, how stunning, how gorgeous she is. What happens to this narrative when looks inevitably start to fade? When women and their looks dwindle, becoming invisible, becoming nothing?

I can’t speak for all women, but I have been known to place my value on my looks. But my concern with my appearance isn’t about attracting or seeking attention from the opposite sex. It’s a show of how I represent myself, how I value myself, how I take care of myself. If I think I look anything less than perfection - the ideal of perfection I have created in my head based on my own beliefs, my own view of the world - I can’t bare to show my face.

Navigating this world is a never-ending challenge. If the lines on our face equal maturity, if they tell the tale of a life fully lived, why do we feel the need to erase our history? It’s because the blemishes and the imperfections show a weakness of character. We are told to hide our emotions: don’t laugh, frown or scowl otherwise those lines will be etched into your face for the rest of eternity. I notice in my own face the scowl lines between my eyebrows, the faint beginnings of frown lines on my forehead, the laughter lines around my eyes; years of my face telling my feelings to the outside world now moulded in my skin forever. But our faces should remain unchanged, a picture of perfection.

This was taken in Krakow in 2015. I used to hate this photo, picking out all of the things that I viewed as not perfect. Now I’m not sure why I hated it. I look happy and it was a great weekend break. Surely that’s all that matters.

We are surrounded by an unhealthy narrative where comments such as “Hasn’t she aged?” (of course she has, she’s older) and “She looks good for her age” (great, we live in a world where women are applauded for not looking their age) are thrown around causing confusion and low self-esteem. We can’t be seen to be desperate yet we can’t be obsessed with remaining youthful. We don’t want to be thought of as ‘giving up’ but also don’t want people to think we are ‘trying too hard.’ If we have Botox, we care too much. If we do nothing, we don’t care enough. We also can’t share that we care about ageing and the act of ‘not ageing’ needs to appear effortless, as if it was in our genes all along.

It’s draining.

There are of course beautiful older women. Those women who go against nature, either naturally or via other means. Then there are women out there who attempt to mask the advances of ageing only to make herself look like a caricature of her former self. Do you know what is truly beautiful? Seeing a woman who doesn’t care, who takes ageing in her stride: no shame, no hiding, unapologetically going against societal norms, paving the way for the rest of us. I hope I can be that mature when I’m older. It’s also refreshing to see women owning their choices no matter which side of the fence they fall.

Have Botox? Good for you!

Love your wrinkles? You do you!

The reality is, we have no real control over it. And no matter what we do, someone, somewhere, will have an opinion (and I’m talking about everything you do, not just about whether you have the odd injection of Botox to make yourself feel better).

Bringing men into the equation

I found a quote online which said “Ageing enhances a man but progressively destroys a woman.” I tend to agree. We live in a world where men get better with age, where men look good with a few lines, a hint of ruggedness, where men are complimented as ageing like a fine wine or looking like a silver fox. Women instead get haggard whilst desperately trying to cling on to the last of their best years. No woman was ever complimented for her creased face or grey hair.

Proof of a man who looks good at any age

My husband doesn’t spend a fortune on extravagant skin care products promising him the world and more. He shaves, washes his face, and occasionally steals my moisturiser if he is in the mood for it. I understand there are now more and more male skin care products available within the beauty market but, let’s be honest, men don’t need to tamper with their faces. Men can decide to show their true face to the world. Women on the other hand, portray a certain image to the world through their face, their face in which they are judged upon.

I ask my husband if he will love me when I’m old, if he will still find me attractive when I’m over the hill. I may as well be buried under it if the answer is no. But then my husband turned to me and asked if I will still love him when he loses his hair. The answer is a resounding yes. You see, it’s not all as it seems; men have their worries too.

Just deal with it…

I’m in my thirties, set to turn thirty-four in the autumn, and I know what you are thinking. That ageing is still a faraway concept for me, I have years left, what am I complaining about? And let’s be honest, nobody is going to agree with me and my worries about my ageing face. If I complain to friends or to my husband, they will tell me I’m being ridiculous, that I don’t look a day over thirty-three, that I’ve got years left. And quite frankly, nobody really cares.

There will be women who read this, women older than me, annoyed with the words they are reading, having lived through a greater period of ageing. Then there will be women younger than me, basking in their youthfulness, unworried, probably thinking my words are an over-reaction, a reality far away. I felt that way too once. Trust me, it creeps up on you And, let’s be honest, the narrative starts earlier than we care to admit. The pressure is already building throughout our teenage years and on into our twenties; the years of scrolling social media, of having more and more access to people’s faces every day, taking its toll on our fragile minds. The comparison is an every day occurrence alongside the feeling of needing to keep up, to be relevant, to not be invisible, to continue to show this perfect face to the outside world no matter what. I dread to think what the children of today have to contend with. I am forever grateful that Instagram and TikTok were faraway creations in a, probably still to be born, developer’s brain cell when I was a child.

I am self-aware enough to realise that unobtainable beauty norms have screwed me over and I know I care too much about what people think about me. Maybe I have relied on my looks too often over the years. Maybe now I can’t face the fact that this reliance is diminishing by every day I grow closer to death. What will I have left to rely on? My exceptional conversational skills, humour and intelligence? I hardly think so.

I jest of course. I know my words are shallow, that sometimes I’m consumed by my own vanity and my own perfectionist idealism. I know that beauty is skin deep, that it’s what’s on the inside that matters. Deep down I know life is to be lived and I shouldn’t worry about ageing. Everyone gets old, there is no escaping it, there is no way out. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it makes me realise that actually I’m not immortal, that I am getting older and that nothing lasts forever, looks included. I should look at it as gaining new looks to replace the old. I should be more focused on my life, grateful for the fact that I still have it. I must realise that with ageing comes a whole heap of other benefits: wisdom, experience, confidence, resilience, happiness. The beginning of not giving a damn.

A couple of photos from the last few months. I can pick these to pieces, pointing out the parts I don't like, the effects of ageing staring at me in plain sight. But what am I gaining? Why not say a big cheers to the memories instead!?

And what will it really matter when I actually am old? Will I look back on my life and analyse my face throughout the ages? Or will I remember the experiences I had, the memories I made, disappointed in my younger self for worrying so much about what I looked like? Probably.

But I still might enquire about the Botox, you know, just in case.

Thank you for being here ….

It’s been a couple of months now since I started this newsletter and I’m loving every minute of it, and I hope you are too. It’s great to have a space to write about the things that are on my mind that I’ve either been mulling over for a while or that come to me in the moment leaving me scrabbling to find a pen before the thought leaves my brain. If you do enjoy reading my random moments, please feel free to subscribe to get a new email from me every Friday morning and share with your friends to spread the word. And I would love to hear from you in the comments below! Do you relate to this weeks article? Or is there any topic you would like me to cover? Let’s start a conversation! Much love.