The Grateful Deadass
Aging isn't nearly as scary as all the shit we do to try and prevent it.
I used to have this bit with one of my cousins when we were in our early 20s running around downtown New York like American Apparel-clad muppets during peak indie sleaze era — we’d blurt out “You’re 40!” whenever we were razzing on behavior that seemed to border on the boringness of adulthood. It was only a couple of years ago that our other cousin (who is 10-12 years older than us) reminded me of that, saying, “You think 40 is old? You realize that will come up faster than you think, right??” (who currently at 52 could be mistaken for 40).
Looking young for your age is considered a top-tier flex. It’s a remark I receive often, to which I generally reply with an occupational disclaimer and a shrug because Asian don’t raisin, Black don’t crack, and all that, etc, etc. It’s worth noting that the whole ‘looking young for your age’ spectrum is generally measured by Caucasian units determining what accumulation of years corresponds to what numerical age. Most melanated folks understand that we follow a different timeline.
I know what most Asian people know: we all tend to look younger than our years (maybe even the same) up until a certain threshold and then we immediately go grandma/grandpa.
I was very resentful of looking young for my age for most of my youth — the burden of most late bloomers. (There’s a whole chapter of this in my book.) What a waste! When I hit puberty, my body refused to pubate, and thus delayed all kinds of rites of passage my peers easily slid into (the 3Bs: blood, boobs, boyfriends). It also spelled the end of my child modeling “career,” which to be fair, would’ve ended anyway for many more legit reasons but at the time it felt like A Big Deal™.
Aging, specifically anti-aging, has always been a defining principle of beauty when it comes to women, and it only gets louder and more urgent the older you get. But ageism is a boomerang that will come around to knock your ass down the more you invest in it while you’re young. I just… does no one ever think of that? Whenever I overhear a Gen Z and/or A disparaging a woman’s age (as young as 28), I want to shake them and shout, WHAT DO YOU THINK HAPPENS WHEN YOU CONTINUE LIVING BEFORE YOU DIE, HUH??
The older I get, the more secure I feel in certain fundamental habits that previously felt like a deficiency. I was never into partying, I loved spending a Friday night at home reading, and if I ever felt pressured to impress people who made me feel like shit, well, I simply wouldn’t. Yeah, those things may have made me feel like a loser in my teens, but the alternative felt so much more…strenuous.
One thing that hadn’t occurred to me until semi-recently is that with age comes wisdom (allegedly), and with wisdom comes not giving a shit about dumb shit. May we all age out of anxiety eventually.
What I’m looking forward to most in my later years is that I will get to be EVIL. I don’t mean villainous or full of ill intent, but because nobody thinks twice about older women, nobody thrusts the same expectations that they do upon the ripe blossom of youth. Instead, I can be a right ol’ cunt and no one can say shit to me. Fear or respect me, it doesn’t matter in which order.
Where I may have judged unkindly a young woman behaving like an entitled brat, I revere it in older women. They’ve lived through shit. They deserve it. I cannot wait to inherit that legacy. I hope to no longer feel the reflexive impulse to bottle up my feelings and rage for fear of rejection. Instead, I can call upon the jester’s privilege afforded to kooky old women to say the most out-of-pocket shit and everyone will just be like, “Ummm OK??”
I say this in the relative youth of my late 30s and with the privilege of the beauty industrial arsenal at my relative disposal, should I choose to use them. I mean, I have already, mostly to indifferent results. But putting more effort into preserving myself feels like the lonelier ambition — islands get boring with no friends. Preventative care comes in many forms.
<Pivot>
Anyway. I saw The Substance last week. I was excited to see it as it combines my two favorite genres: horror and beauty. Also, I was assigned to write about it for InStyle, which I did. I saw Coralie Fargeat’s first film Revenge (my third favorite genre) when it came out, which was also a graphically vicious film.
It doesn’t surprise me that one of the most effective ways to get people’s attention is with graphic violence and gore, especially when it involves women (and especially when delivered by women). By cultural expectations, women doing violence feels like a corruption of femininity. But who better than women to understand the shapes that violence’s brutality can take in pursuit of control and power? Our collective rage is running out of containers, considering how we often make ourselves the victims of our own grief and fury. The Substance makes that very clear.
If there is a parable to be learned from it, it is perhaps to remember who the real enemy is. The patriarchy should be relieved that we choose to make unflattering art about them rather than other kinds of messes.
</pivot>
If you’re keen, you can read more of my in-depth thoughts about The Substance in my InStyle essay/movie review. There aren’t any pivotal spoilers, but if you haven’t seen the movie yet, omg please do. I promise it’s not (that) scary but it is quite gross.
One snippet I’ll leave here in case you’re like “click another link?? Sheesh”:
Once the film’s very bloody finale happens (I won’t give spoilers, but it’s a campy nod to both Carrie and Frankenstein), I couldn’t help but notice that Elisabeth did not have one single friend in the film. Instead of helping and supporting one another (as the substance is originally purported to do), Sue and Elisabeth compete for control of their life. It’s a lonely idea that not even your clone wants to be your friend. Beauty culture’s most toxic messaging will always find you in moments of isolation. Sorority and community are how we can engage in beauty in nurturing ways. Perhaps if Elisabeth had even one friend (it’s a horror movie—pointing out obvious implausibilities is par for the course) who she could talk to about her insecurities, maybe they could reassure her that she’s had a great career, secured an incredible apartment, and has a life that's hers to do whatever the hell she wants with—beyond chasing the same gig working for the same asshole.
I'm loving getting old. The freedom to be truly me, but I do object to the painful knees!
ALSO noticed the earring and haven't seen anyone else mention it so THANK you hahah