The terrible truth about older women
I am at a restaurant for a ladies lunch. We are talking about hair, our general unhappiness with its texture, sheen, volume. And color.
“I found a white hair,” says one of my friends.
I confess to having found many. I pull them out with a tweezer, hoping another does not rush to take its place.
We talk about food and exercise, the shameful truth that cutting back on one and increasing the other does not lead to a significant difference in our proportions. We gloomily acknowledge that we are stuck with the bodies we have – the accretion of cellulite, the sagging arms, the convex stomachs. Someone mentions vitamin supplements, the importance of calcium tablets, the possibility of osteopenia.
When the menu arrives, I put on my reading glasses. Another friend holds her phone at a distance, squinting. We laugh together in companionable embarrassment, hiding our anxiety. We know it, we are growing old. Little incidents like this confirm it, every day.
The logical sensible part of me urges me to accept the inevitable with grace and good humor. In my lighter moments I giggle with my girlfriends and insist that we all are eighteen till we die, we are young at heart etc. Yet, there is a part of me that protests against this march of time that longs to ward off old age for as long as possible.
I know that men too don’t look forward to growing old and confronting their own mortality. But they start worrying only when they are nearing seventy, unlike women who feel that they are old when they cross thirty-five. Why is growing old such a terrible horrific thing for women?
Yes, we all know that physical attractiveness is a wonderful blessing, as much as courage or goodness or intelligence. Somewhere along the way, youth and beauty have become synonymous for women. Perpetuated by cosmetic companies and their allies, the women’s magazines, youth is an elusive desirable commodity. We are being brainwashed into a wild goose chase for this elixir of youth which will take away all our problems, not just sagging skin but unhappy relationships and unfulfilling careers. Even if you are not young, you can look it. And if you look young and beautiful, you can have the world at your feet. Everything will be just the way it was when you were twenty. With taut skin and firm breasts, you can sail into an ocean of endless opportunities. Remove your sun spots and your husband will love you again. Wipe away that wrinkle and men’s heads will turn. Color your hair, else you will be called aunty and relegated to a lonely miserable life. Who can withstand this constant onslaught, the continuous reminder of our diminishing aesthetic appeal in the world?
Add to this, the fact that a forty plus woman is no longer of childbearing age. Despite all our medical and technological progress, the most important contribution a woman makes to humankind is to give birth to little humans. Age not only diminishes the aesthetic value of a woman but erodes her usefulness to society. This might no longer be true for many of us educated women in the modern world, but anxiety from a hundred years ago is still encoded in our hormones. We inherit this atavistic fear from our mothers in the womb. We feel the constant tick-tock of our biological clock. A man can father children well into his seventies but our ovaries decide to stop production in our forties. Biologically, it all makes sense. Mother Nature knows what she is doing but that doesn’t help other women who have to confront their decreasing utility.
By the time we are into our forties, our children have become independent beings with a mind of their own. The cuddles and gooey kisses have stopped long ago. The teenagers roll their eyes at you and pretend to exist in an alternate dimension. The tiny creature who could not spend a single minute without you rebels when denied a sleepover at a friend’s place. In a best-case scenario, the parent is tolerated, reluctantly obeyed and loved from a safe distance. Adolescence marks the beginning of the crisis of confidence for the most capable mother. If we have survived that and steered the teenager into her twenties, it is time for her to leave the nest. Even in India, the last bastion of the Joint Family, few children want to spend their adulthood in their childhood home. Motherhood, which lies at the heart of our identity, is under threat.
Everything seems stacked against the aging women – physically, biologically, psychologically. While men become more powerful with age, accumulating money and status, the woman becomes increasingly irrelevant. The average Life expectancy for females in India at 67 years. What does a woman do with the last twenty years of her life?
She takes on the role of the evil saas, projecting her angst and insecurities on the new daughter-in-law, who is a constant reminder of her lost youth and fecundity. She tries to compensate for the redundancy as a mother with the tyranny of a mother-in-law. Else she becomes the devout martyr channeling her anguish into Bhajan mandalis and spiritual pursuits. She has little to look forward to except the prospect of grandchildren and little to hope for except small acts of kindness from her family. With the exception of a few rich or lucky ones, this is the fate of the majority of women as they grow old.
We cannot prevent aging, but we can prepare for it in a better way. We need to nurture a third part of our identity apart from that of a wife and mother. Working women who have survived the turbulence of managing a job and family can take refuge and pride in their career. Homemakers can cultivate an interest, a hobby, a passion which provides them with energy and fuel to keep going. Whether it is gardening or a Good Work for a social cause, we need more than the daily routine of housekeeping to bestow colour and meaning in our lives. We need to take good care of our mind and bodies knowing that only those two will be our constant companions in the twilight of our lives.
We also need some help from the world at large to keep depression and dementia at bay. Can we see some forty plus models in their graying glory gracing the cover of the magazines? Can we watch more movies with older women as superstars bashing up baddies and romancing younger men? Can we read about an 88-year-old woman getting married to her longtime lover? Can we share stuff about older women climbing Mount Everest or running marathons instead of retweeting Poonam Pandey’s picture?
“With mirth and laughter, let old wrinkles come,” said the bard. I am not going to feel so terrible about the next white hair I see. I will laugh at myself as I pluck it out. I will take my calcium and vitamins supplements and do my yoga, knowing that I have the gift of a rich beautiful life to look forward to.
This article was first published on IBN Live’s blog
