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How I Embraced the Journey of Aging
Updated: Dec. 26, 2023
Originally Published: July 12, 2023
At 43, I find myself in the crosshairs of the anti-aging industry, which targets women like me with its array of unrealistic promises. I’ll admit, in my early 30s, I fell for it. (Ah, the allure of luxurious skincare!) While I have yet to indulge in any cosmetic procedures and have no plans to start, my natural beauty routine is something quite special.
My daily ritual involves gently tapping argan oil serum onto my forehead and cheeks both morning and night. I concoct my own body oil from rose hip, avocado, and jojoba, mixed with a secret blend of essential oils. I even create artisanal raw honey masks that I apply with care.
Instead of resorting to botulinum toxin injections, I rely on Frownies—a beauty tip passed down from my grandmother, whose radiant skin still shone bright at 85. I’ve inherited more than beauty secrets; I’ve also learned the deeper lessons about the insecurities that our beauty rituals can sometimes hide.
My grandmother was a stunning woman who had an elaborate vanity setup. I would watch her as she applied her makeup in front of a large mirror, and one day, she turned to me with a concerned look. “Do you think I should get a facelift?” she asked. At just 10 years old, I didn’t know what that meant, but I quickly reassured her that she was beautiful and maybe a bit crazy.
A Different Perspective on Aging
In her youth, my grandmother was often mistaken for a film star—an aspiration she held dear. Upon reaching 50, she decided to subtract a year from her age for every birthday, claiming to be 26 by the time she passed away far too soon in 1990. It became a lighthearted family joke, though it was sometimes a source of stress for her.
As a child, she affectionately referred to my hands as “paws.” Growing up in a household filled with Pomeranians and rescued cats, it was a term of endearment. My hands were delicate, fair, and long-fingered, just like hers. But as an adult navigating the world as a freelance writer without the luxury of a dishwasher, my hands have endured their fair share of wear. Many hours spent typing away at outdoor cafes in Manhattan exposed them to the elements, and I recently realized they need sunscreen too.
Now, as I work, I can’t help but notice the aging signs on my hands. Even before they began to show wear, my need for manicures made me uneasy. I would rush to the salon mid-deadline just to avoid looking at chipped polish and rough cuticles.
A Tension Between Beauty and Feminism
People often guess my age to be in my early 30s, and while it’s a compliment that brings me joy, it also makes me reflect. I’ve studied Women’s Issues and even penned a book for teens titled Coping With the Beauty Myth: A Guide For Real Girls. If given the chance, I could go on a passionate discussion about societal beauty standards. It’s a classic case of “Doctor, Heal Thyself.”
When I encounter those who mistake me for being younger, I don’t consider lying, unlike my grandmother. Instead, I delight in revealing my true age: “Nope, I’m really 43!” I enjoy their astonished reactions. This is a blend of vanity and a touch of feminism.
However, the once delicate “paws” of my youth have transformed into a reminder of my true age. I once heard someone suggest hiding my hands on dates to conceal their wrinkles. But in honor of my grandmother and mother, who is both alive and more grounded than the rest of us, I won’t hide my hands. Instead, I’ll show them off in all their crepe-y glory. Just so you know, you won’t take my Frownies from me until I’m cold and dead.
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Summary
Aging is a journey I’ve grown to appreciate, despite societal pressures and beauty standards. My family history with beauty rituals has shaped my perspective, teaching me that true beauty lies beyond appearances. Embracing my age and the stories behind my hands, I’ve found peace in the natural process of growing older.