A lot of Francophiles become such partly because they’re fascinated and perhaps not a little envious at just how youthful many French women of A Certain Age are. I know I am, but not really because they look or act youthful; rather, I look to them because they more than just about anyone I know have taken the old adage about “aging gracefully” to heart and actually live that as their life’s overarching philosophy. They’re not tethered to treadmills, slathering copious amounts of face creams that cost more than a week’s salary, and spending even more amounts of money on questionable dermatological procedures that more often than not actually detract from our naturally pleasing appearances. After all, if someone like Madonna or Janice Dickinson–they with all the money at their disposal–can still fail to stop time from marching unceremoniously across their faces, then what little hope do we have of being able to accomplish that with our own relatively modest incomes?
A recent article in the Times of London titled, “Why French Women Don’t Get Old,” presents a laundry list of reasons of precisely why our Gallic sisters seem immune to the social lashing we Americans and our fellow Brits receive in the hands of our friends, family and even total strangers as we move forward in the chronology of our lives. It’s not that French women have necessarily smoother, tighter skin, but rather that their culture so reveres the older woman that youthfulness is basically beside the point. The journalist points to stellar examples such as Charlotte Rampling, Catherine Deneuve, Jane Birkin, and Juliette Binoche, not to mention non-celebrity types such as the politician and former presidential candidate Segolene Royal and writer/playwright Yasmina Reza, both of whom are fiftysomethings and would make any nubile Millennial look positively dull by comparison. We Americans love to mock every wrinkle, every crease, every extra pound of flesh on a mature woman’s body, while at the same time behave mercilessly towards the same woman should she decide to do something about it–plastic surgery, Juvaderm, turtlenecks–to stop our insulting yammering. The French, on the other hand? They practically fall all over themselves in wonder and amazement at the richness of experience and intelligence, not to mention the luminous glow of a life well-lived, of women well beyond the age at which we on this side of the Atlantic throw our female elders under the nearest senior bus.
I had a delightful birthday not two weeks ago–I turned 38–and had a party at which more than one person remarked on how young I look, how delightful it must be to not look one’s age. I suppose people thought I would feel complimented, and in some cases I do. I do take care of myself and buy the best skincare creams I can afford–Olay, Paula’s Choice, Porselene–and exercise and try to eat right (although yes, I have my Cheetos moments, especially when a deadline looms and I’ve yet to complete even half the assignment) but if I were to be completely honest, I don’t mind the aging at all. I mind the tasteless jokes about being over the hill, the crass cards that I’ll never forgive Hallmark for–you know, the ones with the cemeteries and the inexplicable comments about having one foot in the grave and AARP membership and all that–the idea that somehow my personal stock decreases in value with each passing year on the great social exchange of American culture.
I don’t, however, mind the hard-earned wisdom that comes from having traveled widely, eaten well, loved much, and been equally loved in return by some amazing people, both men and women. I don’t mind at all the knowledge that my twen
ties are well behind me. They were gorgeous years, full of energy and speed and painful lessons, and they’re over, thank God. They gave me much and did their job in molding the person I am today and have yet to become.
Perhaps if we accorded our elders–whether they’re forty or ninety–the respect they not only demand but rightfully deserve, we wouldn’t be in so much of the mess we’re in now, with healthcare such a crazy quilt of unworkable compromises and personal tragedies. We would care as much about our weaker but wiser members of our community as we do the younger and stronger ones. We would recognize that everyone has something to contribute, whether they were born in the 1990s or 1930s. The term “generational divide” would only refer to chronology rather than actual social tensions, and we would be all the greater because we not only would have history on our side but also as our teacher.
And maybe we can finally lay to rest forever all the awful, offensive and truly obnoxious jokes about old age. Aging is something to celebrate, a life process we should honor for the perspective it gives us about what’s truly important in life. I know of more than a few people who never had the privilege of experiencing it. It’s a shame that we should mock and be terrified of the one thing that they would have wanted more than anything to have.
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