How I am dealing with ageing and turning 40 as a vain person

I am a sucker for party tricks. And one of my favourites, much to the exasperation of my friends, is excitedly asking people, “How old do you think I am?”. In my late 30s, this was particularly fun for me, since the guesses would go from 26 to 28. “I am 36!” I would declare to the mostly uninterested crowd, but the few looks of surprise and ‘ooh’ and ‘aahs’ I’d get would give me the validation I desperately sought.

This party trick hasn’t brought me the same kind of delight since I turned 40 – a number that I approached with trepidation. The answers started hitting closer home, some people even guessing 38. Gasp.

I did not take too well to the markers of age showing up. Early on in life, I realised that the mirror and I would be close companions. I liked what I saw: glowing skin, silky hair, and even though I was taught modesty like all young brown girls, I was self-aware and knew, even accepted, my vanity. But now, I’m not sure when the lines on my forehead started getting deeper than the Mariana trench. Despite all their hard work, the blonde highlights were unable to hide the pesky greys. It’s happening, and I have to face it.

Any sane, functional adult will tell you that making your appearance – hair, skin or weight – your entire personality is not a good idea. Perhaps I leaned into the beauty aspect of my appearance harder because I have always been overweight. Nefarious diets and workouts were followed for far too long, but the weight stayed put. So, while people could be unkind about the extra kilos, the compliments for my skin and hair would still pour in, and I felt validated. See, you could never fault my skin – it was the kind that was sold on billboards. While getting on the scale would send my confidence plummeting, a look in the mirror with a bold lip picked my self-worth off the floor. I lived in a world of contradictions, and I chose my beauty as my weapon. You could say my vanity was in self-defence.

Much like an ex you keep going back to, I would then fall back on the temporary high of being complimented on my skin being blemish- and line-free. My confidence took quite a hit when a friend, in passing, mentioned my smile lines, which (god bless her) she described as gorgeous. This was the first mention of ageing brought up in a conversation, and my sense of self was thrown off kilter. Like a bubble bursting, this was a reality check I was not ready for. I immediately looked up Botox and then, humbled by the prices, decided that smiling was overrated, and I could go around frowning like my mom had declared there was bhindi (okra) for lunch again.

Allow a woman her fallacies, for despite knowing the pitfalls of being vain, I continued to bask in a remark about how I looked like I had not aged at all. But then the wrinkles emerged, despite the many hours I spent slathering on the retinol. You wake up one morning and realise your breasts have embarked on their southern sojourn. Your rushed morning is interrupted by a moment of unmitigated panic. You stand there in front of the mirror, holding your boobs in your hands with an idea of where they should be and then, with rising worry, realise that’s not even close to where they are now. Underwired bras, hitherto seen as ancient torture devices, are now retrieved from the back of the cupboard and worn immediately, restoring some semblance of normalcy.

The looming issue of weight starts to creep upon you. If in your 30s you were working out to be fit and healthy, in your 40s, you do it because nothing fits (read here about women in their 60s taking charge of their health). The kilos on the scale start to creep up despite the same routine, and you seem to wake up with an ache in parts of your body you didn’t know existed as you continue ageing.

And despite all this, I would like to begrudgingly admit that while the age of 40 might just do a number on you, it also comes with acceptance. A sort of understanding that beauty and its many forms are transitory. The next wrinkle to make an appearance doesn’t completely throw you off the rails.

I don’t want to state the obvious, but nothing will stop the ageing. What may help, perhaps, is talking about it with my female friends, co-workers, family. We all know it is deemed frivolous and seemingly unimportant. But while shared trauma and unresolved MIL issues deserve their airing, maybe it’s time I broach the topic of ageing and vanity. On its own, given that women have myriad battles to fight, the experience of ageing can be isolating. I am not sure how the women in my age group are dealing with the loss of supple skin or an age spot. Maybe they feel the same as I do; maybe it’s time we talk about it more.