How Aging Makes Me Feel More Beautiful

Vicky laughed and said, “Oh, no, no, that’s crazy. We’re partners.”

The waiter made no indication that what he said might be offensive. He went on to explain that I looked more mature.

Vicky said, “It’s the hair.”

“No,” he said. “It’s the face.”

The first time this happened, we were probably 42. A woman, stumbling drunk at a food and wine festival, asked if Vicky was my daughter. I wanted to throw her mojito in her face. A few years later in Chile, our driver asked Vicky if she’d have a drink with him. She told him we were together, and he said he thought I was her mother.

I’ve been fielding these accusations for more than 10 years. Slowly, I’ve gotten used to them. It's true that Vicky looks deceivingly young. Her skin is lineless, and at 51, she has silky brown hair with very little gray. But I’ve also come to accept looking older, not just looking older than Vicky.

At my last high school reunion, the women looked older for sure, but our faces showed strength. We may have been saggy, but our bodies showed vulnerability and also capability; we’d climbed mountains; we’d given birth. I thought: Damn, we look hot.

Last week I met friends I'd biked across the country with 28 years ago. We hadn’t seen each other in a few years, and for the first 10 minutes, we went on and on about how we looked. I’ve witnessed this conversation in groups of women my whole life. Someone compliments. Someone self-deprecates. Lately these conversations are slightly different. There’s an undertone that sounds like a yearning for the past.

“How do you do it? You look gorgeous.”

“Spinning, five times a week.”

“Whatever I do, I can’t get rid of this muffin top.”

“Please, you look great.”

“Whatever, I’ve given up mirrors.”

We took a picture together and posted it on Facebook. One friend posted a picture of us from the biking trip. There we were, side by side, then and now.

Twenty-eight years ago, we’d pass the heavy jug of milk at breakfast and show off our defined biceps. Now I’m holding my arm out slightly. My skin looks loose, my muscles not so defined. I’m wearing a snug T-shirt and there’s the start of that menopause tire just above my belt line. My hair is going gray and my face is wrinkled around the eyes and forehead, but the effect is beautifying. I look chiseled. Mature. I look like an aging hippie. I look better than ever.

Andrea Askowitz is the host of the podcast Writing Class Radio. She’s at work on a memoir about attention. Follow her on Twitter @andreaaskowitz.