I’d love to see a guy in Spanx. A guy who gives enough of a crap about his beer gut to huff and puff and squeeze and groan as he struggles with the unforgiving elastic, stuffing the rolls in and trying to breathe afterward. Then smiling cheerfully as he sits at the table in his best suit picking at the food on his plate because he knows there is no way it is possible to have both food and Spanx sharing the same space in his body. I’d love to watch him grab the back of the chair, trying not to pass out from the shallow breaths he’s been taking all night and the too many glasses of wine that have replaced his meal.

I’m forty-one. I know, still young in the grand scheme of things, but physical evolution hasn’t quite caught up to mental evolution nor to our continuous redefinition of what it means to age, to be past our prime. We’ve decided that because we still “feel” young, we are still young, even if our bodies haven’t gotten the memo. So we struggle against them and their constant reminders that age comes for us all no matter how young we feel. I know that barely a century ago, I would, at this age, be past my prime and resigned to that fact. But now, I feel like I’m just beginning. My mind is clear. I am grounded and sure. I’m excited about possibilities. I know that I matter. Hard to say the same of my twenty-five year old self, or my thirty year old self, or my thirty-five year old self.

My body has decided that it doesn’t care what my mind feels like. I struggle with sleep. I struggle with my hair and skin. I struggle with exhaustion that creeps up from out of no where. I work hard to keep all of these things in check. Almost a year ago I decided that my eyelashes were woefully inadequate. I’d never noticed before, but when someone offered me a serum to make them grow I looked closer and bemoaned the fact that they, too, were deserting me!

My dermatologist told me that I should be using a retinol cream every night for age spots and fine lines. I have age spots? I tried the cream for two nights and woke up to dry, flaky skin on my forehead and cheeks. I tossed it into the trash. He had assured me that every woman over the age of thirty-five should be using a retinol cream just as a matter of fact. Every woman? Guess men don’t get age spots and fine lines. He also told me with a chuckle that even botox wouldn’t help the deep grooves of worry on my forehead. I’ve studied them in the mirror more times than I’d like to admit, stretching the skin out, imagining what it would be like without them, despising the permanent scowl they have etched into my face.

As I age, I don’t want to run from it or be afraid to talk about it. I’d rather embrace the crone. Wisdom comes from experience, experience can only come with time. Why is youth the ideal? My youth eluded me. Now is all I have. And I’m curious about the double standard that seeps in from all directions between aging men and women. Why do women have to try so much harder? Why do we have to care so much more?

I was thinking about how our bodies change after giving birth. We kill ourselves trying to make them go back to what they were, bombarded by the tabloids about all the celebrities who bounced right back. I figure that if men gave birth, saggy boobs and stretch marks would probably be sexy.

Like “dad bods”.