Evergreen

Words Lucy Sanderson Photo Ollie Jones

It’s not lost on me, the fact that since turning 40, my online footprint must have stamped on a landmine, triggering a never-ending thread of suggestions for me to look younger. One even said I could ‘be younger’… Dunno if that was an offer for cryogenics or something, to freeze my withering old carcass before I dare bear a wrinkle. Either way, I scroll past fast (with my old lady thumbs).

Ordinarily, in nature there’s a kind of celebration of age, growth and fruition. In human nature, not so much. We celebrate antiquities and we commend people for ‘reaching a ripe old age’… We often congratulate people for looking younger too. It’s good to ‘knock ten years off’. Why? How is looking younger any achievement at all? It’s purely genetic and who bloody cares? I am cringing at myself a bit as I write this and my friends will be laughing as they read my hypocrisy knowing I love a bit of botox.

Ok, so (like many) I fall foul of the need to look and thereby apparently feel, ‘evergreen’.

For you nippers out there, fresh-faced and full of collagen, you’re not going to have the faintest idea what I’m talking about. Trust me when I tell you it sneaks up, this apparent problem called ageing (listen to your elders). This awkward shunt into a ‘next phase of life,’ being aged, middle or otherwise, whereby you are conscious of gaining wrinkles and sprinkles of silver strands. Or losing hair, teeth, menstrual cycles… marbles. It can all be a bit of a shock - a slap in jowls as it were.

My ageing epiphany wasn’t even spurred on by me. I think it was mostly those dastardly data hoarders over on social media that made me ‘woke’ to the fact that I am now a woman who apparently needs to try and counteract the natural process of growing older. I guess there are not many real life people who’d say it to my face - “Oh hey Luce, looking a tad weathered there, hun… take this pill, do this exercise, drink the Kool Aid…” Instagram is, however, not shy in the slightest about letting me know I need to tend to my wobbly bits, flatten out my wrinkly bits and shame myself free of any hairy bits. The stream of ads and content for ladies my age portrays a whole new arena of issues to play in.

Did you know that women over 40 should do ten minutes of face-yoga every day, pop aromatic herby sachets in our vaginas and meditate online with various sun-kissed, poolside ‘life-coach lady gurus’ from Bali every morning as the sun rises in order to remain youthful and retain our glows? Yeah, neither did I until Insta showed me. *btw, Instagram is no longer a regular app on my phone due to its persistent rudeness in this regard. Take that, Zuckerberg, you purveyor of online assholery and also, waxy-looking cyborg. As if women don’t have enough to contend with - the world actually wants us to solve the ‘problem’ of never-lasting youth. Battle with the turn of time; yeah ok, hold my drink.

Not digging at the guys here but, how come we all hail the dad bod, but when it comes to ‘her’ in a similar state, she’s let herself go? Rant over.

Social media aside, as a woman who is now very aware of being middle-aged, I’m going to take a leaf out of Andy McDowell’s book (look her up). I’m going to ‘choose’ to feel whatever I like - beautiful, old… a bit of both. I will embrace ageing, earn my years (and my hair stripes) and strut my beautiful old ass up Strand St (in my sensible shoes).

I am going to take inspiration from how the Chinese culture reveres its wise, old people. Moreover, I am going to remember just how I felt as I watched my mother, my grandmothers and other women I know and love age - these women have never looked anything other than radiant to me.

Therein lies the solution to my original question; as these women evolve and age, I view them as nothing but wise, wonderful, inspiring and beautiful because I love them. Maybe if I love myself more, that’s how I will see myself when I pass by my reflection - beautiful, wonderful, wise; evergreen.