Women Of A Certain Age

In six days, I will cross the great divide from the 30s to the 40s. I will become a woman of a certain age, enter a new phase of life, and be eligible to be a subscriber to More magazine (which I already am).

Though I sent away the postcard offer with the box checked for a subscription because I expected more from the magazine of the same title, than what I found in similar women’s magazines. I thought this was the smart woman’s periodical, the one that featured intellectual topics and women who lived their live aspiring for substance.

And then I received an issue. Stories about sun spots and hair loss and all the travails that befall women of a certain age ran rampant in their pages. This, smart woman copy? I beg to differ.

My grandmother bought me a subscription to Ladies Home Journal two years ago and from that one, I expect triviality. Just like the other titles, a story about what to do when…life lets you down and gravity kicks in doesn’t surprise me. I don’t care about perking up what eventually will sag. I don’t want to eliminate sun spots (vitamin D is good for you, people!).

I cover up the gray hairs on my head because, hell, hair color is FUN. And I’m toying with the idea that if there are a few more pounds around my middle, maybe that’s the way women are supposed to be as they age. More to hold on to…

I expect from a title like More to find more content, more meaning, more exciting ideas to invigorate the latter part of life. Everyone 40-something and 50-something I know is more confident, more dynamic, less concerned with what others think, say, and do, and more independent than in her earlier years.

That’s the kind of woman I am turning out to be.

So if the magazines insist on including condescending content to feed every last worry about aging women, well then, I’m sorry, but I’ll just have to find something else to read.


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