Time is happening to my face

And yours. Is there a right response?

First of all, I noticed my neck. Late thirties, less elastic, alarming. It felt unexpected, which is perhaps another way of saying that I always knew visible ageing would happen but I didn’t think it would be yet. And there is something about time passing that we feel individually immune to - we won’t get old, we won’t die, right? Now in my forties, outrageously my physical self continues to reflect the years that have passed, as well as the two babies it has carried, fed and nurtured: my tits are trashed, my hair is more grey and wiry and dry, the my skin on my face is more puffy and creased.

My right side is my best side isn't it

I want to be evolved enough to not care about my ageing face and body, as one of the 8.2 billion human bodies on earth, all of whom will age, if they are lucky enough to get to age. The idea that I might spend a good deal of time lamenting the physicality of ageing feels wasteful, superficial, when some people cannot afford to feed their children, have weeks to live, have had their home/homeland destroyed by genocidal governing forces, etc. Sometimes - often - I recognise that gratitude about being here to get older is the only sensible response.

And also, the genetically blessed woman in her early fifties on Instagram, not a line on her face, such smoothness, defying gravity; the friend of a friend in her mid forties with amazing breasts and dewy skin; the young, beautiful women on screens everywhere (they always were, now there are many more screens). The high value our culture gives to either being young or looking young of course devalues being old, looking old.

They also say something about the way in which it’s ok to get old: if you must get old then ideally don’t look like you are. If you are starting to look old, you need to try your best to stop, but do it “gracefully” i.e. without too much intervention, maybe just anti-ageing cream, staying hydrated, good diet and supplements, perhaps some face yoga - make an effort yeh? But it’s most important to not look old, so if graceful isn’t working then pick a more nuclear option, but nothing that looks like a nuclear option otherwise you will receive complaints about how much work you’ve done, how ungraceful you are in your ageing.

Needles, knives, pain, local anaesthetic - the seeming violence of certain interventions is off-putting, as if our faces and bodies are so problematic that they have to be met with extreme solutions. But also, there is some snobbery here about people’s choices, especially around the sticky category of options which purport to be more “natural” (a word which helps sell things and can be a cosy hiding place from admitting we share the same collective fear). And there’s another kind of fear, a scarcity worry that others’ aesthetic improvements could make me appear inferior by comparison. I remember feeling this when I first started talking to people around me about botox and those people looked sheepish and I realised that they’d all had it (conversations have continued to reveal that almost everyone my age has had it). I felt indignant, a sense of a betrayal of sorts - guys maybe we didn’t discuss it but I thought we’d all get older together without anyone … cheating?

We judge women for having too much or too little “work” done, for caring too much or not enough, for spending too much or not enough time and money on themselves. These days I feel less triggered by what other people choose to do, a rightful stance for actions that are absolutely none of my business. But I sometimes worry that I will continue to crease into a rotten fruit while other people the same age as me will morph into Margot Robbie, because, genetics aside, I don’t feel called to spend that much time or money on my appearance. A few minutes to put make up on and take it off, rub some face oil into my skin, swallow some supplements, wash my hair every couple of days, take 5 minutes to style it. I don’t really want to go anywhere for anyone to do anything to me, especially something that has to be maintained, except a hair cut every 5 or 6 months. Maybe if I was rich I’d cave and have those face lifting facials. I think my sloppy effort towards my appearance is a mix of not being bothered and feeling like I have better things to do, when time - to myself, on earth - feels like such a precious resource.

And also, sometimes I wish I adhered a little bit closer to society’s particular beauty standards. Sometimes, don’t we all? If there used to be things I’d change about my appearance to fit more closely with these standards, as I age the list gets longer. I wish I had amazing skin and looked ten years younger than I am. I wish I was just a little bit more beautiful by these standards, I wish I still had pert breasts upgraded from my previous B cup (now As, fuck my life) to a perfect C. I wish I had hot cougar vibes. I wish I had one of those Brazilian butt lift butts. I wish I was strong and curvy without having to lift a fucking finger.

There’s a sense of laziness or some way I’m not working hard enough to stop this gross thing happening. We carry around shame about looking older (when we are older) but also for not putting in the effort to look, as far as possible, like Demi Moore, or someone else old but still sexy. As we age and slowly begin to lose the sexual power that we previously wielded, there’s also a sense of loss here. Sometimes I feel quite sad when a barman or barista who would once have possibly fancied me now looks through me, because I am a 40-something mother of two children.

I know I’m looking at myself through a certain lens and we could call this lens patriarchy or the male gaze and I know that this lens labels age-appropriate physical changes as deterioration and loads normal changes with shame. This lens is internalised by people of all genders, all ages, all backgrounds, we look through it at others as well as ourselves. Sometimes I see myself through my children’s eyes - the people this body grew and birthed and nourished - and remember how they see me, what my body embodies for them. How we can practice looking through a different lens? Is this something already in us, a muscle that we just need to flex?

A few weeks ago I went to the pool and sauna in my local leisure centre. There is a very diverse London crew who gather there: old, young, fat, thin, white, black, South Asian, Middle Eastern, African Indian, hench gym guys, a woman who may have had a stroke, a woman in her 40s with the most incredible bottom I’ve ever seen, someone with a serious limp. (If you want to remember what human bodies are really like, go to your local swimming pool). They talked to each other and I watched. Watching people’s faces, I sometimes feel like I can see someone so clearly in a way that is beyond seeing in the superficial sense. You know when someone’s past and present seems to spill out onto their face and through their bodies? I know this is the reality of it, embodiment as an entirely different set of beauty standards - the true thing that emerges in the melding between who someone is and how they look, when their essence comes to life, to light.

When I notice the people around me who I love looking older (because they are older), I notice this in the way that I might notice a car is red as opposed to blue, or maybe I feel that wistful pang, shit, time passes, but that’s about loss, not disappointment about how saggy their face has got.

Realism suggests that it’s unlikely that I will ever rejoice as my hair, skin, teeth, fat, muscle ages. I do not have to love all the changes and I can take time to feel that emotion, to say goodbye to things and still decide to send myself kindness. To sometimes be a little bit playful and light with the events that will happen to us all. I can remember I don’t owe anyone else a particular response to ageing other than the one that sits right in my body, my self, at that time. (That will keep evolving and I will probably still google micro needling and anti-ageing eye cream and gua sha facials and do fuck all about it anyway).

Apart from the cost and ultimate futility, part of my aversion to extreme attempts to preserve my youth comes from the sense that if I change too much, move too far from a naturally unfolding version of me, this would be a different kind of loss. Are we all attempting to hold onto ourselves, in the way that makes sense to us? Recently, I was struck by an overwhelming feeling of sadness about the thoughts I’d been having about my body, however semi-conscious, a feeling that I’d abandoned an old friend. It made me want to celebrate it, this set of systems doing its best, this daily miracle, this structure trying to carry me. Underneath the surface critique, there is an old fondness for myself just as I am, this desire to be with myself as I age. It doesn’t mean doing nothing to stem the tide, but it might mean not doing so much.

I know it’s a practice, to cultivate the idea of how remarkable it is that I am here, how remarkable it can feel to be here. To look out from my physical self, being inside my experience, noticing how my body feels rather than just what it looks like. To keep saying prayers with my body, noticing my wrinkles and still choosing to go and dance explosively in my living room, channelling David Byrne and someone’s mom. Time is happening to me and to you and aren’t we lucky, to be in receipt of time like this?

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