I’ve never understood the horror some people have of others knowing their age. Among other things, it requires endless forms of subterfuge and denial, from falsifying mere statements of age to all of that domino-like cascade of phony documentation and historical records that must be juggled over time–though, according to those claims, that will have stood quite still. In more extreme cases, it leads to a compulsion to alter oneself to fit the imagined character of the mythical preferred age. I find lots of highly stylized and generalized and ‘flawless’ dolls unappealing, weird and creepy, and ever so much more so, living beings who have had themselves altered by cosmetic means (temporary or, in extremis, surgical) to be less age-appropriate or individual.
Yes, I do understand the urge to fit in, to be accepted. But perhaps my having felt, most of my life, that I look pretty average and ordinary–none of me either bad- nor good-looking to any extreme–makes me inured to the pain of those who think themselves terribly, awfully out of sync with others in appearance. Certainly I know that there are many who have had external reinforcement from thoughtless or cruel others that they are unattractive or unfit or otherwise unacceptable. That is one true form of ugliness: bullying. Demeaning and hate-fostering and belittling are as terrible in their way as any forms of torture, because they scar the soul just as effectively as physical abuse scars the body and spirit. And that can make anyone feel old ahead of time.
But when it comes to the simple and petty desire to deny the years spent on earth or the effects of living a full life on one’s body, skin and hair, I still don’t quite get it. I watch those hair-coloring commercials where fabulously primped and preened models assure us that those smart enough, like them, to use X brand are obviously grand and wonderful enough to warrant the expense of that harmless form of self-adornment “because I’m worth it.” Well, good on you! But it so happens that I think I’m worth just as much with my own dull dishwater brown hair sprinkled with hard-earned threads of white. Plastic surgeons are always eager to inform me that I could be smooth, cellulite-free, and have perfectly formed chin, nose, breasts and cheekbones if I’d only let them perform their magic upon me. In addition to my having seen a long parade of walking evidences to the extreme contrary, or at least extremely contrary to my own tastes, I am shockingly content to have a mole practically right in the middle of my face, one ear far lower than the other, shoulders of quite different sizes, stubby hands, remarkably pasty and slightly sallow skin, a couple of scars from clumsiness and carelessness, and–oh yeah–quite the growing collection of wrinkles here and there upon my entire personage.
Get used to it. I’m a used vehicle. I’ve driven this body through a lot of history, which, if not remarkably rough or exotic, takes its toll in bits and pieces, softening up that muscle tissue which once was a tad more taut, stiffening the formerly flexible joints, adding a few pounds here and a lot of freckles and spots there, and all of the other signs of ordinary aging. Beyond beating, as it’s said, the alternative, growing older has some distinctly positive aspects to it in my view, not least of them that I know, like and respect myself and my finer features far more than I appreciated such things in younger years. I am finite, yea, even slithering down the slope of the latter part of my life, and I will die. Before then, I plan to live it up.
And if that shows in my greying, thinning hair, my spotty memory (which was always a hair more colorful than reality anyway) and my thickening waist and glasses, my slowing reflexes and my ever speedier increase of dithering and forgetfulness, so be it. If it shows in my increasingly complex network of wrinkles, why then Good on Me. Literally. I earned all of these insignia of my fine, me-sized-adventure filled life, and if they make me look less than smooth and perfect and doll-like and youthful and conventionally beautiful, I don’t mind one tiny bit. I certainly never liked ironing anyway, and I earned the right to savor my wrinkles just as they are.
P. S. I was born in 1960, and I still have hopes of getting a whole bunch older than I already am, if all goes well.
Art-Colored Glasses 
Dear Kathryn Ingrid…wrinkles, gray hair, etc…are a badge of honor in my book! Like a tree gathering new rings year by year…it’s part of life that I embrace, and I also have never understood the wish to look like a perennial Barbie doll.
And I’ll say it again (as I did in a FB comment to you)…in my book, you are BEAUTIFUL inside and out! Live it up, for many more years!
Love, Gracie 🙂
Same to you and more of it, my dearie! I’ve always admired your beauty of every kind, and take it as high praise indeed that you approve of my mode of approach. 🙂
xoxo!
KI
Kathryn Ingrid, it is my life’s mission given to me through my own personal struggles, to build women up!! Your words are truth spoken into a world that has no respect to age or different types of beauty! Beauty is portrayed in a very small box in our society. To me your beauty shines thru! I believe every women ages in a beautiful way! God Bless you! Keep writing! Beautiful stuff!
Thank you, kind friend! You are so gracious to come by and say such marvelous words of support. I can see from your gravatar photo and your writing even in this brief note that you have both of the kinds of beauty I’m referencing–the worldly, external sort, *and*–most importantly, the soulful sort. So happy to meet you here!
Kathryn
Good for you. I agree with you completely.
Thank you, my friend–I know that you understand there are so many different kinds and levels of true beauty in the world . . .
Kathryn, you are remarkably awesome! I wish to be as accepting of myself as what you are, which is 100% the way it should be. My mother keeps telling me that age is a wonderful thing, with it comes acceptance. Sadly I am not very accepting of how my body is failing me at such an early (39) age – I have to confess that given half the chance I would definitely go under the knife to improve on the problems that are on my mind every single day! Sad I know, but still my reality. My hubby thinks I am barking mad as he loves and accepts me just the way I am and will not partake in a conversation with me about any of it.
🙂 Mandy
I am not just being Mrs-Nice-Guy when I say that in your photos you are extraordinarily beautiful, Mandy–my idea of a fairy queen personified (and I’m a huge fan of the supernal creature, you may have noticed)–and in your writing it is confirmed that you are more deeply beautiful still. That is a very potent combination indeed. I do know that self-image is incredibly hard to adjust, even when we know it may not be entirely fair or accurate, but I hope that you can trust that despite my delight in/attraction to your charming personality, I really do find your physical beauty is enough to capture my artist-eye as a lovely picture all its own. You are special. Hugs!!!
xoxoxo
Kathryn
Kathryn thank you! You have touch my heart deeply with your comment.
Hugs back to you, friend.
🙂 Mandy xo
Hooray for you and the breath of sanity! We can’t stop (or even slow) the march of time. While we might ‘re-surface’ the exterior, the potholes of life are still there, just under the exterior waiting to show themselves. I’ve earned my grey hair and wrinkles and see no need to try and deny the evidence of my life. (Like the classic Chevy, I’m a ’55 model year)
Hurray for the classic ’50s!! The decade produced a whole host of my favorite people, so clearly you were destined for greatness!
It’s not even that I just accept the aging of the exterior, but that when signs of it are built by truly living and not letting anything get in the way of it for too long, the aging marks become genuinely beautiful in and of themselves–that deeply lined face so full of history, the silver hairs like bolts of platinum lightning, the gradual fading of the colors of eye and skin and hair and the softening of all those edges that once were so unforgivingly hard and controlled. Crawling up into the lap of a pert and plastic-like grandma could *never* have been so sweet.
It took me a while to figure out that I didn’t need the color-in-a-box or the artificial acrylic nails or the latest purse or the trendiest fashion. In my twenties and early thirties, I chased something that I wasn’t, until one day I finally quit chasing it, and found myself. Now all the wrinkles and bumps and lumps and my home-chopped hair matter very little in the grand scheme of things. As you said, I’ve earned the streaks of white in my dull brown hair, and I’m perfectly okay with that. I’m even a bit fond of the streaks, if the truth were known.
Ha! You made me smile–I was thrilled to pieces when my mouse-brown mop showed its first grey hairs of interest in my mid-twenties. Some might not understand that, but I’m quite proud of simply daring to be myself. I couldn’t be happier than to have a sister in that in you!
xoxo
Well done youl I have to confess to hiding the grey hairs that are now appearing and slapping on plenty of moisturiser and sun screen to help keep the wrinkles at bay…but I just don´t understand these surgically enhanced “babes”. Scary. Will they ever accept that with ageing comes wisdom, experience and the fun we´ve had to get to where we are?!
Me, I’ve jokingly considering telling people I’m ten, twenty years *older* than I am just so they’ll be amazed at how impressive I am for such an old chica, but honestly, I’m totally content with being 51+ and seeing just how far I can go. If you like, you can send me any unwanted grey hairs and I’ll paste ’em in with mine, because my grey hairs are so much prettier than the so-called ‘dishwater brown’ with which I started. 😉 Here’s to us real, living women!
I should take a leaf out of your book and embrace my strands of silver…I have earnt them after all!
A great post – celebrating life and beauty at it’s best, the real kind! Funny enough my mum knocked 10 years off her age, it confused the hell out of me, no doubt confounded friends, and I never really understood why – maybe a generational thing, maybe personal. Not something I have any desire to repeat myself 🙂
I do enough things to confuse and confound family and friends without changing my age, so I’ll stick with going along at ‘average speed’ and watch what happens. Now I think Robert Browning was giving us *all* good advice when he said ‘Grow old along with me . . . ‘ !
Good for you, Kathryn. It’s one thing to try to look your best; it’s another to go under the knife, repeatedly, in an attempt to turn back the clock 30 or so years. And we wonder why so many of our youth have body image problems?
Zia is 89. Her face is well-wrinkled. Her hair virtually white. I wouldn’t necessarily use the word “taut” to describe her. She’s never looked more beautiful.
I can only imagine Zia’s true loveliness. It’s what I’ll work toward too. There is no substitute for real life in our faces, bodies and souls, is there!
You speak for many of us and I appreciate your acceptance of aging and the confidence you exude as you declare your worth. Wonderful.
If I can’t *become* mature, at least I can work to *look* mature. 😉 Life can be so good–why erase any of it?
I’m with you. I don’t know why people have so much trouble with their age. I’m still 29, and this year on my birthday I’m qualified for Medicare. They lowered the age just for me.
You lucky, lucky man. If I opt for a ‘magic age’ to stick with long term, I might just go with the ever superb and whimsical Jack Benny’s 39. I could do worse than be like Jack! And since I’ll always act pretty much like a twelve-year-old, chances are fair that people will be surprised at my youthfulness for being a 39-year-old geezer.
Here, here!! I have been known to practice subterfuge regarding my birth year… but if asked I’m honest:) I agree with you.. I think true beauty seems to just glow in those whose beauty emanates from the inside… just like you!! Gorgeous, talented, Kathryn:) xo Smidge
Awww, you make me blush. You are just that person you describe, my sweet. And by the way, I love your new photo!
xoxo
Kath
Ole’, kind ki; keep kickin’…
You too, my darling, you too!
The one thing about aging, is that it just doesn’t matter as much any more! It offers a freedom that nature imposes on us for our own good, I think. So why do so many want to keep locked up in trying to be other than they are?
Love this: ‘I am finite, yea, even slithering down the slope of the latter part of my life, and I will die. Before then, I plan to live it up.’
Enjoy every moment!
I’m doing the best I can at that enjoyment part! You too, my dear lady!!
xoxo