November and getting older
Consumption Diaries No. 14
November has always been one of my least favorite months, perhaps because it feels so transitional, which means it’s uncomfortable. I have the added bonus of a birthday during the month, an uncomfortable event in itself that makes me feel caught in a liminal space.
I’ve put off this month’s Consumption Diaries as I’ve put off much of my life’s comings and goings. I feel bad about that because I’ve had a ton of new subscribers (at least by my standards) over the last month and surely you’re all wondering why you signed up for a ghost newsletter. Blame the metaphorical transitions.
Every year, I tell myself how silly it is that birthdays feel so weird, that we’re all so afraid of aging that we have to distract ourselves with parties and cake and copious amounts of alcohol. A celebration, sure, but with an undercurrent of sentimentality I think few of us want to confront.
It isn’t all that silly that we feel weird about birthdays, though. It’s both stupid and so meaningful that humans are capable of such introspection around aging, a fear that goes beyond the animalistic will to live and reaches into the unknown state of nonexistence as ourselves, in our bodies.
We’re scared of irrelevancy, of existing in a world no longer meant for us, which we understand we’ll experience while we’re alive; we will all age out of targeted demographics and pop culture, of technology and beauty. Of course, we do what we can to delay the inevitable, making jokes about how old we’ve gotten long before we’re actually old and rolling our eyes at younger generations, but no amount of fear or sadness or sarcasm negates the fact that aging is a privilege. Eventual irrelevancy is a privilege.
I’m 32 now, which feels like a transitional age in itself. I am still young, but I’m not that young. I’m old enough to grapple with my immortality and begin to recognize signs of that coming invisibility, but I’m young enough to breathe a sigh of relief too. I have time, hopefully.
I think women feel the melancholy of aging more deeply than men, and for the obvious reason that we have more societal pressures thrust upon us with narrower confines for an acceptable life and identity. I field questions about why I’m still not married and why I’m not having children far more than my partner, a man, who is four years older than me. And being aware of these frankly oppressive standards doesn’t lessen our insecurity when we don’t fit into them; I still sometimes feel as if I’m doing something wrong by not having kids, and I started getting Botox this year because 31 felt like an acceptable age for it.
I think most of us who spend any time online at all are past judging women for their desire to get cosmetic work, even if we don’t agree with the work itself or think it looks terrible, but sometimes I see Instagram posts or TikToks that are thinly veiled attempts to shame anyone who succumbs to their insecurities through statements like “normalize aging gracefully” or “embrace your natural beauty.” Be quiet, I don’t have natural beauty! I am a VIB Rouge at Sephora and spent $2,000 I didn’t have on Botox this year! This is all an illusion! You can probably guess that all of these content creators are white, thin, conventionally beautiful, and generally young enough to pass for an age that shouldn’t even be talking about “signs of aging” (like wrinkles on women are a disease to be on the lookout for symptoms of).
The concept of “aging gracefully” is, frankly, bullshit. The women we hold up as examples of aging gracefully either have had cosmetic work done, albeit something we’d call “tasteful,” or they were so genetically blessed that their inclusion on the roster feels irrelevant. Just as in youth, the standard of beauty for older women is set by those whose genetics have kept them looking younger and thinner than their age, which isn’t realistic. The majority of us are not going to age within those standards, whether we get Botox or surgery or not.
The only grace that matters here is on a collective level, given by society to allow people to age without comment or discrimination. Men are given that grace, largely. They are allowed wrinkles and gray hairs and sagging skin, things we call signs of dignity and maturity that render women invisible at best. (During Killers of the Flower Moon earlier this month, I couldn’t stop thinking about not only how much Leonardo DiCaprio has aged but just that he has been allowed to in the spotlight).
The invisibility feels like it’ll come as a shock, especially for women, who have been conditioned to believe their worth is tied to their illusion of youth and beauty. But we haven’t merely been conditioned that way, it is that way. Women are not viewed as equal counterparts to men, but they’re also not viewed as equal to younger women as they age.
Talking about aging with a friend lately, he mentioned that a woman he knows just turned 40, and instead of devastation, she only felt relief. She is allowed to exist in her body as a person, not a woman for consumption.
There isn’t some magic spell that causes the scales to fall from our eyes when women turn 40, but the sentiment of long-waited freedom is one I hear often. It’s the prize at the end of three decades of enduring. It is the privilege of irrelevancy.
And I see the holes in this argument too; it’s dangerously close to agreeing that women are ugly and undesirable around middle age and onward instead of throwing out the standard entirely. But can the standard be thrown out entirely, and can it be thrown out by women?
I don’t know that I’ll see an age where I don’t feel the compulsion to continue Botox injections and thousands of dollars in skincare and maybe even something more permanent and extreme some day. The compulsion comes with guilt and disgust, maybe more so at age 32 when I can’t justify the way I cling to my vanity. I’ll blink and be 33, 34, then middle aged, if I’m lucky. I will become invisible or irrelevant or I won’t, but I will at least continue having these November transitional navel-gazing moments. Sorry!
what I read
I’m not reading much these days; I had grand plans to participate in Nonfiction November, especially with some books to teach me more about the injustices in Palestine, and yet. I’m having trouble concentrating on anything beyond contemporary romances. As always, a disclaimer that I am such a hater with romances even though I know I should either do better or stop reading them, so maybe judge me more than you judge these books.
Romantic Comedy by Curtis Sittenfeld — my favorite thing about this book is that it felt different than other contemporary romantic comedies in its writing style, maybe because Sittenfeld writes general fiction too. I couldn’t help but root for the couple in this story because I have to believe celebrities will fall in love with regular ugly people, even though the woman is kind of a pick-me and it’s so uncomfortable that a literally flawless man swoops in and fixes her. Some of the SNL references and details were fun, and others felt so unnecessary and distracting.
Rifqa by Mohammed El-Kurd — I’ll lean on all the cliches to describe this poetry collection that details and examines daily Palestinian life under occupation: moving, haunting, impactful. And the fact that the collection is dedicated to and centered on the author’s grandmother is the most moving of all to me. I will never honor my grandma in a way that does her that kind of justice!
Right on Cue by Falon Ballard — I requested this on Netgalley because I wanted to read and couldn’t make my brain comprehend a literary fiction sentence (I actually just read the first page of five books about 10 times each and didn’t absorb a thing). I’m only just now realizing I read two celebrity-related romances this month, though this one is between two already famous people. This one was fine. I didn’t love the characters, whose immaturity and unprofessionalism are actual plot points. I’ve also read Lease on Love by this author, the millennial girlboss humor of which I didn’t love, if I remember correctly. But maybe I don’t! Right on Cue publishes in February 2024.
what I watched
The K-drama Alchemy of Souls had me in a chokehold at the beginning of November. I am too embarrassed to admit how quickly I watched this one despite its length and the fact that I watched it entirely on my phone. Even though it’s both historical and fantasy, two genres that are almost never up my alley, I gave this one a chance at the urging of both of my sisters. It did not disappoint and is definitely one of my favorites of all time, but it also reminded me why I love the one season format so much; the second season did wrap things up but just wasn’t as good!
Also on the K-drama front, I’m watching the ongoing Castaway Diva and My Demon, and I also started fully aired Daily Dose of Sunshine and Celebrity because I need four going at once so I’m never without new episodes.
To complement my years of Spanish classes and 225 day Duolingo streak, both of which I have nothing to show for, I watched a Spanish language miniseries on Netflix, A Perfect Story. And I was shocked at how good it was! I am a slut for a sliding door plot and the chemistry between the actors (the man is the Spanish version of Jacob Elordi) is off the charts.
Movie-wise, I was on an A24 kick with Past Lives, Midsommar, and The Lobster. Past Lives was by far my favorite of the three, even though I still feel fragile from it. Midsommar was good and I mostly get the hype, but I thought the handling of mental illness was both lazy and unnecessary, cheapening the whole thing for me. When can the bipolar girls get a break in Hollywood? The Lobster was weird but funny (minus the dog) and I think I would like to be turned into an orca because I am so curious what those smart little guys are up to.
I also watched, idiotic commentary included:
The Birdcage (Robin Williams and Nathan Lane deserved better than that straight son), Killers of the Flower Moon (no movie needs to be 3.5 hours long), No Hard Feelings (so we cast Jennifer Lawrence in roles too old for her and now we’re just calling her old, got it), Love at First Sight (I literally thought it was called Love at First Flight the entire time, imagine my disappointment), This Is Where I Leave You (stacked cast movies are always kind of cringe), Best. Christmas. Ever! (No. Worst!), and Eyes Wide Shut (Tom Cruise’s scientology origin story).
what I’m succumbing to my capitalistic urges for
I bought three books on a trip to Solid State Books: Biography of X by Catherine Lacey, The Vaster Wilds by Lauren Groff, and Evil Eye by Etaf Rum. Stay tuned for when I read them, which at this rate may be never.
I’m really liking the Hourglass concealer. I’m still a basic shape tape girlie, but this is lighter and dewier and it still looked good after a full day that included an 8 a.m. flight and holiday stress. Also makeup-related, though not a new purchase because I’ve been through three of them, the Lawless forget the filler lip gloss fills in lines like no other. This + a coat of Fenty gloss bomb makes me want to kiss myself.
misc.
Best thing I ate: My friends and I discovered a cheap Sunday happy hour at new-ish Nama Ko, made only better by the servers’ enthusiasm over the HH menu and a round table perfect for dramatic Real Housewives drama.
Best thing I drank: The London Boy cocktail — English breakfast tea infused gin + allspice dram being the star ingredients — at Reveler’s Hour, which is one of my favorite restaurants in DC. Their Julia’s Child martini is also good though much sweeter and dare I say more sippable than a dry, briny martini.
Before you go: Find me on instagram, goodreads, storygraph, or letterboxd to keep up with my obsessive tracking habits in real-time.
i <3 u