My mother Ethel is 81 years old. It still catches me off guard to say that because mathematically, that means I am 53. Which I am. Which is weird. Because if she is old, then I am getting there, too.
Ethel has never stuck her face with Botox or fillers. She has never had any plastic surgery. She barely even colors her hair. She looks damn good — not just damn good for 81, but damn good in general.
She has good skin. She also laughs a lot. She reads voraciously. She has an evening cocktail. She has never really liked exercise. She has a pack of good friends she sees regularly. She is happily married to her original guy — Dad. I’m not sure what her secret is to gently aging. She would probably say being happy and not really giving a care about aging.
Aging is a hot topic right now as women like Demi Moore and Nicole Kidman are aging in the spotlight. Older women are managing to stay hot and relevant when, in the past, Hollywood would have put them out to pasture years earlier. In some ways, this is helpful, but in other ways, it just ups the standard for what it means for a woman to age. It seems the needle has moved from, “It’s not OK to age,” to, “It’s OK to age as long as you don’t look like you’re aging.” We still have a long way to go.
Love and aging together
I am neither a proponent nor a naysayer when it comes to plastic surgery. I say, do whatever makes you happy, as long as it makes you happy for the right reasons and on your own terms. The last thing women of any age need is more judgment.
I met the love of my life at age 49. While I know that he is most definitely getting the best version of me because of my age, I sometimes wonder what it would have been like for my husband to have a physically younger version of me. Would he find that version sexier or more desirable? Then, I think of all the unresolved issues he would have to endure to go with that slightly hotter physique, and I would never wish that on him.
He surprised me recently with a beautiful gift.
Finding beauty in the original
Mark is a car aficionado — he collects and races — and he bought me a 1987 560 SL Mercedes convertible, a car I have always admired. I call her Janis. If you are my age, then you know why. If you are younger, you will need to listen to Janis Joplin’s song, “Mercedes Benz.” Janis is absolutely stunning and in mint condition with less than 30,000 miles. A gem. A unicorn. She is creamy white with a hardtop, a chocolate brown soft top, camel-colored leather seats and woven rugs that look like sisal or jute. Her stereo system is the original CD player. There is no aux cord. No way to call anyone. No screen. No Waze. If I get lost, I’ll just enjoy the drive. She also happens to be from the year I turned 16. She is truly the most exquisite and thoughtful gift ever. I am in awe.
Perhaps, what this gift signifies to me best is about what my husband finds beautiful. Beauty isn’t always about being “new.” Beauty can be found in the original condition, not necessarily needing a restoration in order to be lovely. Beauty can have some miles accrued. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, the driver. Beauty is experienced, not just viewed. Beauty is wind in your messy hair and sun on your face — with sunscreen, of course. Beauty is singing ‘80s songs at stoplights and not caring who hears you.
Maybe the art of aging beautifully is in loving well and being well-loved?
When my husband handed me her keys, he said, “She’s elegant, babe, just like you.”
I cried when he said it, and I cry now as I write it. That is exactly it. As I age, I want to be elegant. I’ve decided I want to be a classic.
Vintage me.
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