The moment I began to fear ageing

I stand in front of a wall of skincare. Each shelf offering a solution to the different stages of a woman’s life. Acids, moisturisers, serums, cleansers, oils. Tinctures to prevent the inevitable or at least mask it. I’m away from home and have forgotten my usual moisturiser, so I’ve been forced to venture out to the chemist with too loud music and too bright displays.

I can’t decide. Do I take the collagen infusion moisturiser with peptides and anti-ageing technology? Or do I opt for a Hydro boost to keep my skin plump and supple? Am I at the stage of needing acid based masks that will eat away at my skin to reveal a fresh layer sooner than its natural cycle? 

I’m 31 in two months. I pride myself on my non-chalance of ageing. I’ve never had a fear of ageing or an issue with looking my age (or older!). I’ve always had the mindset that every day is a privilege. That showing signs of that privilege is a privilege within itself.

Every woman I know gets cooler, smarter, funnier, wiser and just better with age. In my opinion, one of the biggest travesties in our society is the dismissal of older women. Their life experience coupled with emotional intelligence, and often resilience should be heard and embraced. I admire and love women who are older than me. I have always been excited to get older because of what I see in my future, thanks to the modelling by these women.

Yet, as I stand here confronted by a Tsunami of solutions to insecurities I didn’t know I had, I feel flash of unfamiliar dread. Do I need collagen yet? Am I in the anti-ageing demographic? I notice wrinkles and fine lines on my face in certain lights, I see the young woman in the mirror transforming into just a, well, woman. My skin is losing its bounce, my hands are showing sun damage, my upper lids seem to droop more each time I notice them. None of this jas bothered me, until this moment

I reach for the collagen infused moisturiser. Collagen couldn’t hurt, right? I should probably start thinking about these things now that I’m in my 30s. 

 It’s all preventative! they say. Start it all early. Stop it before it takes over. Baby Botox will ensure you never see a wrinkle in your life. Micro needling hurts but it’s “worth it”. Add in fish semen to extract from the youth of unrealised baby salmon. Massage your face every morning  and night to minimise pronounced labial folds, lift your brows and keep your cheek bones high. Buy a LED face mask and blast your cells with red light therapy as you potter around the house, multi tasking!

Practice the imitation of youth while you are young and you will stay just as you are. You will be match fit for your years of fighting against your own body

Stay valuable, pretty, young. 

Don’t let your age show, or risk…what exactly?  

Well, the obvious is patriarchal  punishment. Ageing “gracefully” (aka without intervention)  is now see as a radical feminist act to many. The norm is to inject, freeze, burn, soak, peel. If you don’t at least try to adhere , you are lazy. You are unkempt. You are old and you are invisible. 

For women, pretty privilege is tightly tied to the image of youth. The privilege of youth, at the very least the facade of youth, is rarely outright spoken of. In place of honest acknowledgement of the benefits we derive from our efforts to attain youth, we say to ourselves “I’m doing this for me!”

So, standing here with a collagen infused crème in my hand, am I “doing this for me”? Or am I doing it for you? Am I doing it for my career? Am I doing it to be loved? I don’t think so, I know Adam loves (and wants to fuck)  me more every day. His attraction to me has never even felt to be based on my looks, though I know he thinks I’m beautiful. It feels primal with him, like our instinct is pulling us to one another. 

Despite this, I’m wondering if deep down I truly am scared that love is tied so closely to attraction that remaining physically the same will ensure his love cannot fault. 

Guilty feminists (like myself) often convince themselves that they are “doing it for themselves” as they cough up thousands of dollars and endure painful procedures to emanate their younger selves. 

Ideally I would live free of hypocrisy. A radical feminist with a puritanical life in theory and in practice. But, I’m simply not there yet. And I think that’s okay, don’t you? 

I know many will disagree with me, but I don’t think every action you take has to be feminist for you to be a feminist. I don’t think it’s all that possible. No ethical consumption under capitalism, no ethical existence (for women) under patriarchy. All of these systems are so engrained and all consuming, and attempts to escape are often punished. 

Though this is true, we don’t have to convince the world that our adherence to conditioning is in fact feminist. In fact, it is arguable harmful to claim feminism while acting on our hypocrisy. We can, simply acknowledge the hypocrisy. I do, and I’m giving you permission to do the same

Of course this isn’t “for me”. If I were to never see a mirror or a photo of myself again, if I were unable to check my visual “value” at all, if I lived without the goal of beauty, I wouldn’t need the shiny boxed miracle cream. I know in theory, the “good” feminist within me would put the cream back on the shelf and opt for something that allows me to be one of those “brave” women who age without intervention. 

But, I keep the box in my hand and move along. I am not a good feminist in this moment, I realise. I have succumb to the social conditioning and propaganda of manufactured insecurity that I fight so hard against. But, my skin is dry and my resistance to physical change coupled with existential dread makes the $17.99 purchase a no brainer. 

I go to the back of the chemist and wait for my script. I end up waiting in a line that flows through the pregnancy test aisle. Another pang of dread. I’m 31 soon. I haven’t decided if I want children yet. Am I procrastinating? Am I denying what I truly want? Will I decide I want children, and then it will be too late? Should Adam and I just freeze some embryos just in case?

We recently had a conversation in which we decided that for now, kids are off the table. At least until my IUD expires in four years. We have been toying with the idea since we got together, but lately we are near certain we won’t have a child. For now, the decision is made. 

“I think if we aren’t 100% sure and excited at the idea then we should just park it” I said to Adam last week.  

“Unless one of us changes their mind, or has a burning desire, let’s just wait a few years to have this conversation again”

He agreed. We are in no rush. 

I’m only 31. I remind myself just as my name is called. I collect my prescription and head to the counter, weaving through aisles of supplements promising , verility, hair growth, strength, fertility, youth.

I check out without stopping and walk outside. I’m aware of my crows feet, my thin sunken cheeks, the every growing crease under my eye, my frown lines and smile lines too. 

The sun warms my forehead as I step out of the shade and onto the street.

I wish I had remembered to put sunscreen on.