Aging Gracefully Is for Suckers—I'm Going Down Swinging with Wine and Dry Shampoo
Let me make one thing abundantly clear before we begin: “aging gracefully” is just PR spin for dying slowly while smiling politely. It's a euphemism. Like “resting witch face” or “athleisure wear.” It's code for “look 30 forever, but act like you’re 90 and apologetic about it.”
No, thank you.
If I’m going down—and let’s be honest, gravity is already working overtime on my ass and optimism—I’m going down swinging. With a wine glass in one hand and a can of dry shampoo in the other like it’s pepper spray in a bar fight. I will not “embrace the crone,” light a sage stick, and whisper gratitude to my crow’s feet. I’m more likely to kick a crow in the beak and slather on retinol like it owes me money.
You want me to age gracefully? Sure. Right after I gracefully do my taxes in a corset and gracefully mop the kitchen with my hair.
The Great Lie of the Glow-Up
There’s this myth floating around—some shimmering unicorn illusion that you hit midlife and suddenly “own your power” and feel “liberated from vanity.” That you embrace your wrinkles like they’re the hugs of wisdom and not the aftermath of sleeping wrong and being over 40 in public.
But let me tell you what my “power” looks like: I can detect a perimenopausal hot flash coming on like a storm chaser sniffing barometric pressure. I can open a bottle of wine with my teeth if the corkscrew is missing. I know when my knee is about to betray me like Judas on leg day.
But liberated from vanity? Honey, please.
We’re still expected to have taut skin, plump lips, thick hair, perky boobs, slim thighs, dewy cheeks, bright eyes, white teeth, and zero evidence of mortality—but also not care too much about it. We must look 30 but also chill about it. Aging “gracefully” is code for aging visibly but without complaint, urgency, or Botox on camera.
Let me pause here and take a breath—and by “take a breath,” I mean take a sip of Malbec and reapply concealer to my soul.
Here’s Where It Gets Complicated
Now, before we all collectively throw our anti-aging serums into a bonfire and start raw-screaming into the moonlight, here’s the twist you didn’t ask for:
What if we’re fighting the wrong war?
I know. I hate it too. But stick with me.
Because while I’ve happily given the finger to “aging gracefully,” I’ve also realized something unsettling: I might be exhausting myself swinging at ghosts.
Like, who exactly am I fighting? The patriarchy? Sure. The beauty industry? Duh. Social media filters? Absolutely. But also… maybe myself?
See, beneath the sarcasm, the wine, and the aggressive contouring, there’s a whisper I don’t like hearing: maybe I actually want to age well—not for them, but for me. Not to be “graceful,” but to be strong. Funny. Alive. Present. Healthy enough to still outdance people at weddings and open my own jars.
Aging “gracefully” may be a garbage phrase, but aging powerfully? That hits different.
You Don’t Get Points for Dying Cute
Let me tell you a little story. I once spent $92 on a night cream that promised “visible results in one use.” I looked in the mirror the next morning and saw the same under-eye bags, except now they smelled like cucumber extract and betrayal.
Meanwhile, my best friend Denise—who hasn’t used anything but Dove soap and a prayer since 1987—looks like a sun-kissed librarian who drinks unicorn blood. But she can’t get off the floor without sounding like a xylophone in distress.
The moral of the story? Skincare is a scam, but also don’t stop doing it. It’s all lies, but it’s also hope.
And hope, my friend, is what we’re really addicted to—not youth. Hope that we can still matter. Still feel wanted. Still walk into a room and not be mistaken for the caterer’s tired aunt who smells like Bengay and lost dreams.
But here’s the kicker—we don’t get points for dying cute. No one’s handing out awards for who had the best cheekbones in hospice. I’d rather have laugh lines from cackling so hard I snort, and a belly I earned eating bread in Tuscany at 58 while flirting with a waiter named Luca.
The Whiplash Is Real
There’s a strange tension here—a cognitive dissonance that rattles like a loose bra strap on a jog.
We’re told to “own our age,” then immediately assaulted by an ad featuring Jennifer Lopez bathing in liquid youth while whispering, “I’m 54.” And somehow, we’re supposed to feel both inspired and ashamed. Like, great. I’m also 54. And I just pulled a muscle sneezing and yelled at my microwave for being too loud.
The system is rigged. You can “embrace aging” but not too enthusiastically. You can let your hair go gray but be photogenic about it. Be natural, but stay firm. Be yourself, but filtered.
It’s like being told to bring your authentic self to a masquerade ball. And your mask better have contouring.
Screw Grace—Give Me Grit
So no, I’m not aging gracefully. I’m aging like a raccoon in a glitter factory—chaotic, unpredictable, and slightly feral.
But I’m also aging with purpose now. And grit. And a slow-dawning sense that the biggest rebellion is not against wrinkles, but against the belief that we’re worth less when we have them.
And sure, I still hoard retinol like it’s post-apocalyptic currency. I’ll contour my jawline until it’s sharp enough to file my taxes. But I’m not doing it because I think I’ll stop aging. I’m doing it because I still want to show up in the world as someone who hasn’t given up.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to look 30 anymore. I want to look like someone who’s lived. Someone who’s loved. Someone who’s failed spectacularly and come back swinging—with wine breath, dry shampoo, and a story to tell.
Aging Wildly
So here’s where we land, my fellow cynics: we don’t age gracefully. We age wildly.
We age like hurricanes in leopard print, refusing to be gentle about the fact that we’re still here. Still growing. Still sexy. Still capable of throwing a tantrum in Walgreens if they stop stocking our shade of concealer.
Let the world call it “midlife.” We’ll call it our villain origin story.
So throw out the script. Age like a chaotic queen in a tiara made of rejection letters and good intentions. Age like a woman who’s run out of f*cks but still has three shades of lipstick in her purse, just in case.
And if anyone dares to tell you to “embrace aging,” smile sweetly, sip your wine, and whisper back:
“Oh honey, I’m not embracing it. I’m body-slamming it in a sequin bodysuit while screaming Beyoncé lyrics.”
Now pass the dry shampoo. I’ve got wrinkles to ignore and a life to slay.