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What Does “Aging Gracefully” Even Mean?
On beauty culture, morality, and Botox.
I turned thirty this March, and left my twenties behind me forever.
I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve always said I was an old soul at heart — the chic coastal grandmother without the chic or the coastal. My hobbies are decidedly of the elder variety: knitting, sewing, baking diet-defying treats. My clothes are unfashionable pants paired with flowing cardigans and comfy knit shirts and strong, thick-rimmed glasses. My favorite books were written and published by people who died long before I was born, and my music taste has crossed over from “eclectic” to “decidedly uncool.” Like my namesake in Brooklyn 99, I have a favorite font (Garamond) and I own a documentary about spelling bees (Spellbound, 1999. You should watch it!).
Nevertheless, I still managed to have a few mini panic attacks about Getting Older over the last couple of months, and the crux of them all was something really dumb.
My hair is starting to go gray. The wrinkles around my eyes are… well, there. I’m heavier and less toned than I was ten years ago.
When I look into the mirror, I don’t see a gracefully-aging woman growing into maturity and wisdom with still-youthful skin, laugh lines that disappear with the right kind of matte poreless…
