BREAKING NEWS: Woman Ages Gracefully!! More at 10!!

Let’s talk about aging. Or more specifically, let’s talk about how absolutely horrified society is by the idea of women getting older.

If you’ve ever read a headline like “She’s 50 and Still Stunning!” or “You’ll Never Believe Her Age!” then you already know the drill - for women, aging is treated like a tragic accident; one that must be urgently reversed with creams, lasers, potions, or dark magic harvested from the tears of virgins.

Men, meanwhile, turn 50 and are declared “silver foxes,” “distinguished,” or “seasoned.” They grow salt-and-pepper beards and suddenly look like they could own a vineyard and give unsolicited TED Talks about leather-bound books. Women? We grow a crow’s foot and are expected to stage a small funeral for our youth.

So here it is, the ugly truth we all secretly know but must whisper in shadowy corners like revolutionaries in a dystopian novel: aging is not a crime. Wrinkles are not acts of rebellion. And women over 40 are not slowly fading into irrelevance just because our collagen decided to hit the snooze button.

Let’s start with how the media talks about aging women. I’m 54, and every birthday past 39, the media made me feel as though that was a tragic plot twist. “Jennifer Aniston STUNS at 40!” Oh, does she? STUNS?! What did you expect her to do? Combust into dust mid-interview?

These headlines treat aging like something to overcome; like a brave fight akin to surviving a shipwreck or wrestling a bear with one arm. “She defies age!” No, she doesn’t, Steve!! She just moisturizes and minds her own business.

Or worse, “She’s 60 and doesn’t look a day over 40!” I think that’s meant to be a compliment, but let’s be real, it’s just code for: “We accept you as long as you look like you haven’t aged at all.” What if she does look 60? What then? Do we light her on fire?

The obsession is so weird it’s hard not to laugh. There’s something deeply hilarious (and a little terrifying) about the way beauty companies pitch their products like Cold War propaganda. “TURN BACK TIME!” screams the night cream. “REVERSE THE CLOCK!” hollers the serum. “LIFT, FIRM, TIGHTEN, FIX!” Translation: Hide everything that makes you look like a grown-ass human who’s been on earth longer than an iPad.

Wrinkles, stretch marks, sunspots - these are treated like scandals. There’s more shame surrounding a fine line than there is around tax fraud. If a woman appears on camera with a visible forehead crease, someone writes, “Fans Concerned: She Looks Tired!” As if tiredness is a cry for help and not just the natural state of existence.

Quick note: we are tired. All the time. And not just physically, but emotionally, existentially. We’ve been holding in our stomachs since 1997. Let us rest.

And don’t even get me started on the word “anti-aging.” As if aging is something to battle, not a natural part of being alive. Imagine calling blooming flowers “pre-wilted.” It’s ridiculous.

Also, spoiler: the only way to truly stop aging is to die. So really, all those “anti-aging” products? They’re selling the dream of mortality postponement via cucumber extract. I’m not saying don’t use the serum - by all means, slather it on and pray to Helen Mirren - but let’s not pretend it’s a time machine. It’s more like scented hope in a jar.

Aging hits women and men differently. By “differently,” I mean men are allowed to do it and women are not.

When a man goes gray, he’s “mature,” “wise,” or “Daddy.” When a woman goes gray, people start asking if she’s given up on life. When men get “laugh lines,” it’s charming. Women? “Oh honey, have you tried micro-needling?”

George Clooney becomes a sex symbol at 55. Meanwhile, if a woman over 40 dares to exist in public without Spanx, it’s considered brave. As in “groundbreaking,” like she just free-climbed Everest with no bra on.

It’s not just beauty, either. Women are told their value decreases with age - less desirable, less fertile, less employable, less everything. We’re supposed to achieve our dreams, build a career, find love, raise a family, stay hot, and somehow not age a minute while doing it. It’s like being told to run a marathon in heels, uphill, while holding a tray of wine glasses, and not sweating.

But here’s the plot twist they never saw coming: getting older is actually awesome.

No, seriously. For every wrinkle, there’s a boundary you finally learned to set. For every gray hair, there’s a bullshit meter that works at breakneck speed. You become a certified expert in not caring what some rando named Chad thinks about your outfit.

There’s a freedom that comes with age; a glorious, spicy freedom to not give a damn. You stop saying yes to every invite. You know your worth and how to cut your own bangs without spiraling (mostly). You also finally figure out that 90% of your skincare routine was just peer pressure with a pump dispenser.

And sure, maybe your knees pop when you stand up. Maybe you say things like “ooh, that’s a nice lamp” and mean it. But you also don’t feel the need to chase people who ghost you, wear heels that make your pinky toe cry, or respond to “u up?” texts after 9 p.m.

Getting older means knowing yourself. Like, really knowing yourself. Not the curated Instagram self, but the actual human one who wants nachos at 11 PM and knows how to ask for what she wants without apologizing first.

So, what do we do with all this?

We laugh. We roll our eyes at the headlines. We make peace with our laugh lines because guess what - they came from laughing, not from existential dread or tax season. We wear SPF and drink water, but not because we’re scared of aging, but because we’re smart and hydrated, and that’s sexy as hell.

We talk to our younger selves with kindness. We tell her she’s not running out of time. That she’s not behind. That her value is not linked to how many lines she has on her face. That she’s a masterpiece in progress, not a product on clearance.

And we talk to our older selves with even more kindness. Because she’s been through it. She’s battled societal nonsense  and low-rise jeans. She deserves joy, not judgment.

So…the next time you see a headline like “Ageless Beauty!” or “She’s 60 and Still Sexy!” remember: it’s not the years that define us, it’s what we do with them. And if we want to do it with laugh lines, comfortable shoes, and an abundance of tacos, then so be it.

Age like a fine wine if you want. Or cheese. Or an ancient tree with roots so deep the wind can’t shake you. Or age like a majestic beast who refuses to be tamed. Just age. Loudly. Joyfully. Honestly.

Because the biggest act of rebellion in a world obsessed with youth is being a woman who ages and doesn’t apologize for it.

What are you waiting for? Go be a rebel!