And Now What? A guest post by Marlene Sørensen on aging and life at 40
Aging is a constant surprise. For instance, I was somewhat baffled recently when, without even asking, a helpful sales assistant at duty-free directed me to the anti-aging aisle. It is equally astonishing to see how the skin on my hand looks compared to the skin of my nine-year-old son when his hand lies in mine. Like dry tree bark next to a delicate sapling. I was also surprised recently to find that, in photos, I now actually look like my mother.
How old am I really at 44?
I should add that I consider my mother to be exceptionally beautiful. It is a paradox that I can observe this about her—and yet it troubled me when I suddenly recognized her at my age in my own hairstyle, in the transition from neck to chin, or in the corners of my mouth. That may be because she seemed old to me at 44. However, when she was 44, I was 21. Anything beyond 25 seemed old to me. It is also possible that my surprise at my own appearance is rooted in the fact that, when I am with her, I will always be the child. Just ask her what she thinks about me wearing ripped jeans.
So at 44, I am somewhere between a child and old. Which, chronologically speaking, makes sense, but is confusing nonetheless. And not just because it’s not unusual these days for a 44-year-old to wear ripped jeans, regardless of what Mom thinks. Because other things have changed, too: people are living longer and life paths are no longer as linear as they once were. This creates many possibilities for how to move forward from what is supposedly halftime, but also many questions.
Aging doesn't happen for a long time – and then suddenly root touch-up sprays are a topic
In my book "Und jetzt?" (And Now?), I tried to answer some of these questions. The book is about much more than how my face is changing. And yet, the chapter where I write about my relationship with my appearance and about how aging women are viewed in society took me the longest time. For a long time, I was unsure how I see myself since age has settled into my eye area, my forehead, and my lips. The most likely explanation for why these outward signs of my advancing years surprise me so much is perhaps this: I thought I had more time to figure out what to do about gray hair and how I feel about Botox. What I am certain of, however, is that for a long time, aging doesn't happen at all—and all of a sudden, root touch-up sprays and nerve toxins are a topic.
Significantly, the changes in other aspects don't bother me in the slightest. I even welcome the fact that, thanks to accumulated life experience, I am more relaxed than ever, can speak up louder for my own needs, and now possess a self-assurance that is not easily shaken. At one of my readings for "Und jetzt?", I was asked, not entirely seriously, if the good years are over at 40. No, I said, and not just because my book would be a sad one otherwise, but out of conviction. Because I couldn't think of any age I would rather be instead. 18? 27? 35? All of those were perfectly fine, too. But better? I would rather have a good time now than look back too much.
As women age, they seem to have only two options: let themselves go – or intervene in their faces
On the other hand: perhaps such a look back is useful after all. Because what I realize is why one might even get the idea that the best time of life is already behind them. In any case, over the last 30 years, I have hardly been shown—whether in magazines, on billboards, or on screens—that visible aging is something desirable. Instead, the model was to maintain the status quo—dye the white hair, tighten the sagging skin, minimize the wrinkles. Being beautiful, the consensus goes, is synonymous with being young. Those who age, on the other hand, disappear.
Anecdotally, I am reminded of a conversation I recently heard between three women in a podcast. The oldest, nearly 50, shared the conviction that there was also much good in becoming invisible under the guise of age. It was like magic: if you don't do much more than brush your hair, brush your teeth, and put on leggings, you simply aren't noticed by the world anymore. How pleasant, she said, compared to the decades before, during which she, by virtue of being a woman alone, had received much unwanted attention. A few days later, I saw a quote on Instagram that was shared in my circle only by women and often accompanied by the laughing-crying emoji: "The older you get, the uglier you are willing to go out in public."
Just joking around on social media, one might think, but what resonates is that aging is unattractive. Appearance is only one area in which women, in particular, are denied appreciation as they grow older, but one they can influence themselves. With seemingly two options: either you give in to your own unattractiveness. Or you intervene to maintain what is generally considered beautiful.
What I notice in other women is not their neck, but their attitude
Yet that hardly reflects how multifaceted this time is. Above all, it does not show me what I feel. Because, perhaps for the first time in my life, I have little to find fault with in myself, and it feels to me—as the great actress Charlotte Rampling once described it—that I have arrived in my own face. While I don't exactly want to start cheering at the sight of my deepening forehead wrinkles and my slowly sagging neck, I have realized that it makes no significant difference to my self-perception if everything is smoother and tighter. I tried it. In the course of writing the book, I had Botox injected. Which sounds as if it were purely for research purposes. In truth, I was just curious. Indeed, with what the doctor called a "baby dose" of Botox, I looked as if my face had taken a sabbatical from everyday life. There were many compliments on how incredibly rested I looked. I also liked the aesthetic result. I just found it too disconcerting that I couldn't feel the top third of my face for several months.
Who knows how I will see that in a few years (though it is already clear to me that every woman should do what she thinks is right with her face). At the moment, I am someone who still sees herself as a blonde, doesn't mind the first gray hairs, lets the wrinkles come, but likes to moisturize them. And someone who doesn't want to be overlooked. Because what I recognize in other women who are role models to me is remarkable. I see it in Isabelle Huppert, who recently walked the red carpet in Cannes, flirting and incredibly sexy. I see it in every video Isabella Rossellini posts of herself on Instagram, always at an amusingly unflattering angle, yet unmistakably engaging. I see it in my friends, who may be tired or look worn out at times, but above all appear full of life, warm, and, to use a word that fits our age: vital. That is how I want to see myself, because what I notice in all these women is not their neck, but their attitude. If I succeed in that, then perhaps one day I will recognize in myself what I have long seen in my mother: a whole life. That would be a wonderful surprise.
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