And Now What? A guest post by Marlene Sørensen on aging and life at 40

How old am I really at 44?

I have to say that I consider my mother to be exceptionally beautiful. It's paradoxical that I can recognize this about her – and yet it bothered me when I suddenly recognized her at my age in my hairstyle, in the transition from neck to chin, or in the corners of my mouth. This might be because she seemed old to me at 44. However, when she was 44, I was 21. Everything beyond 25 seemed old to me. It's also possible that my astonishment at my own appearance is rooted in the fact that, when I'm with her, I will always be the child. Just ask her what she thinks of me wearing ripped jeans.

So at 44, I'm somewhere between child and old. Which chronologically makes sense, but is still confusing. And not just because it's not unusual nowadays for a 44-year-old to wear ripped jeans, no matter what Mom thinks. Because a lot else has changed: people are living longer and life paths are no longer as linear as they once were. This creates many possibilities for how to proceed from the presumed halfway point, but also many questions.

Aging doesn't happen for a long time – and suddenly root sprays are a topic

In my book "And Now?", I tried to answer some of these questions. The book is about more than just how my face is changing. And yet, the chapter where I write about my relationship with my appearance and how aging women are viewed in society took me the longest to write. For a long time, I was unsure how I saw myself, ever since age moved into my eye area, my forehead, my lips. The most probable explanation for why these external signs of my advancing years surprise me so much is perhaps this: I thought I had more time to consider what to do about gray hair and how I feel about Botox. What I am sure of, however, is that aging doesn't happen for a very long time – and then suddenly root sprays and neurotoxins become a topic.

Significantly, the change in other aspects doesn't bother me at all. I even welcome the fact that, thanks to accumulated life experience, I am more serene than ever, can speak louder for my own needs, and now have a self-assurance that is not easily shaken. At one of my readings for "And Now?", I was asked, not entirely seriously, if the good years are over at 40. No, I said, and not just because my book would otherwise be a sad one, but out of conviction. Because I can't think of any age I'd rather be instead. 18? 27? 35? Everything was perfectly fine then too. But better? I'd rather have a good time now than look back too much.

In old age, women seem to have only two options: let themselves go – or intervene in their face

On the other hand: perhaps such a retrospective is useful. Because what I realize is why one might even get the idea that the best time of life is already behind them. In the last 30 years, I have hardly been shown, whether in magazines, on advertising posters or on screens, that visible aging is something desirable. The exemplary thing to do, instead, was to maintain the status quo – to dye white hair, to tighten loose skin, to minimize wrinkles. To be beautiful, so the consensus, is to be young. Those who age, on the other hand, disappear.

Anecdotally, I recall a conversation I recently heard on a podcast between three women. The oldest, almost 50, shared the conviction that there was also a lot of good in becoming invisible under the guise of age. It was like magic: if you do little more than comb your hair, brush your teeth, and put on leggings, the world simply no longer pays attention to you. How pleasant, she said, compared to the decades before, when, simply by being a woman, she had received a lot of unwanted attention. A few days later, I saw a quote on Instagram that was shared in my circle only by women and often with the crying-with-laughter emoji: "The older you get, the uglier you are willing to go out in public." The older you get, the more willing you are to be ugly in public.

One might think it's just banter on social media, but what resonates is that aging is unsightly. Appearance is just one area where women, in particular, are denied appreciation as they get older, but it's one they can influence themselves. With seemingly two options: either you surrender to your own unattractiveness. Or you intervene to preserve what is generally considered beautiful.

What I notice about other women is not their neck, but their attitude

But that hardly reflects how multifaceted this time is. Above all, it doesn't show me how I feel. For perhaps the first time in my life, I have little to criticize about myself, and it seems to me, as the great actress Charlotte Rampling once described it, that I have arrived in my face. While the sight of my deepening forehead wrinkles and my slowly sagging neck doesn't exactly make me want to cheer, I have found that it makes no significant difference to my self-perception if everything is smoother and tighter. I tried it. During the writing of the book, I had Botox injected. Which sounds as if it was purely for research purposes. In truth, I was simply curious. In fact, with a, quote from the doctor, "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. It just felt too strange to me that I couldn't feel the upper third of my face for several months.

Who knows how I'll see this in a few years (although it's already clear to me that every woman should do with her face whatever she deems right). Currently, I'm someone who still sees herself as a blonde, has no problem with the first gray hairs, lets the wrinkles come, but likes to moisturize them freshly. And someone who doesn't want to be overlooked. Because what I recognize in other women who are role models for 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, but undeniably captivating. I see it in my friends, who may sometimes be tired or look worn out, but above all seem full of life, warm, and, to use a word that suits our age: vital. That's how I want to see myself, because what strikes me about all these women is not their neck, but their attitude. If I succeed in that, then one day I might also recognize in myself what I have long seen in my mother: a whole life. That would be a delightful surprise.