Figuratively Speaking

“Women my age have let themselves go.”

This declaration was made to me back in 2006 by an embittered recent divorcé in his early 50s. He made it by way of justification for wanting to ask out a pretty 27-year-old interior designer we had just visited. 

I was flabbergasted by his arrogance and not a little shocked at his apparent blindness to his own shortcomings. When I asked him why on earth would the interior designer want to go out on a date with HIM, a man at least 25 years older than she, he went on to list what he perceived to be his virtues and why “women his age” aren’t at his level. Believe me when I tell you, he had grossly and erroneously overestimated his appeal as a potential sugar-daddy.

At the time I could only rejoice for women in their 50s who would never be the target of this man’s advances, and lament for women between the ages of 25-28 who would have the misfortune of having to deflect his romantic effusions. 

I could rage on about how this man’s comments were wrong on so many levels but there was one main point that has stayed with me.

I was in my early 30s at the time and although I was already acutely aware of men’s narrow-minded view of what defined beauty in a woman, it was the first time I had borne witness to such a blatant and brutal display of ignorance on the matter.

Although it has been over 15 years since then, the statement still has the power to offend me. Years of observation have only amassed consistent and disappointing evidence of obtuse evaluations of beauty and moronic standards for women.

Women come in all forms and it’s this variety which makes them fascinating. Why would we want all women to look the same? I believe it reflects poorly on us as a society when we accept the reduction of a woman’s worth as a potential partner to the size and shape of her figure.

It never ceases to amaze me how entitled some people feel in expressing their opinion about your body to your face.  

“You would be gorgeous if you lost a little bit of weight,” and, “I wasn’t talking to you, chubby,” are only two of many comments I have received in relation to my body or general look. The comments were made unsolicited by me and without any regard as to whether or not I was interested in appealing to his (because they were all men) narrow view of attractiveness. 

Women, sadly, are well aware of the critical gaze that is constantly focussed on our bodies; it’s as if we exist for the sole purpose of other people’s viewing pleasure. And this knowledge is harmful. 

I know women who have restricted their eating to 500 calories a day while also doing three hours of cardio, or having surgical procedures to meet some kind of mythical ideal of female beauty. Unfortunately, those mythical ideals often spring from women themselves; we torture ourselves because we no longer fit in the same jeans we did five or ten years ago; we kid ourselves that we should and could look like we did in our early 20s. It’s nuts!

The real problem here is that nobody tells us women that, after a certain age, we will start to lose control of our bodies, that no matter what you do, you will struggle to get your body to respond to all the tricks you used to use to shed a few extra kilos. You could eat like a bird and workout like you were a triathlete in perpetual training for a world title and still have little effect.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could ALL just accept and understand that bodies are different and that they change with age; if we could embrace the differences and the changes, and acknowledge that they are beautiful simply because they are real!?

This is particularly true when it comes to ageing. This is a natural process but it comes with implications – women’s (and men’s) bodies are captives of changes in hormones and metabolism; through no sin of our own, we lose control of our physiques. Things start to droop, we take longer to bounce back, foods affect us differently than they used to. I can literally starve myself for weeks and then get bloated by simply looking at a piece of bread.

Who are we to argue with nature, to judge it or question it? And why would we wish to intervene? It frankly isn’t logical to expect our bodies at 50 to be what they were at 25.

And anyway, what is so wrong with having some extra bumps or squidgy bits? What’s wrong with being soft and rounded? It’s tragic not being able to love your own body unless someone else adores it – it’s also exhausting and demoralising. 

Let’s cut ourselves, and each other, a break and just be thankful we are loveable because of who we are and not how we look.