Tina Fey once said: “The definition of ‘crazy’ in showbusiness is a woman who keeps talking even after no one wants to f--- her anymore.”
Some members of the Republican Party have taken this a step further, making it clear that as women our value is directly related to our ability to bear and raise children. For them the definition of crazy is a woman who keeps working, talking, living, and breathing after she’s passed her child-bearing years.
If this is true, then what happens to us after that?
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Well, I’ll tell you what happens: Things that were once dry are wet; things that were once wet are dry. Soft places have become bony; bony places have become bonier. Places where there was hair are hairless and places where there should be no hair are sprouting errant, bold, coarse, primordial, scaley hairs. Places that were once tight are loose… I could go on and on but you’ve probably stopped reading.
I am starting to understand why heterosexual men of a certain age can lose interest in their female counterparts and go for a younger model—we are just not supposed to be here. JD Vance is not the only hater of women. It turns out, evolution is also not a fan. Once we have surpassed our child-bearing years, we are supposed to be herded, like our cats, onto a giant bus in the shape of a shoe and driven off a cliff, never to be seen or heard from again. But if you insist on hanging around, the amount of hormones, hair dye, therapy, exercise, eye wear, elastic waist bands, supplements, sleep gummies, knee braces, orthotics, and compression socks it takes to keep you “visible”, “viable” and “relevant” is absurd. Not to mention expensive and time-consuming and not yet approved by the FDA. It’s like being held together by tape.
Did my toenail just fall off?
We live in a youth-obsessed culture that is always selling us something to reverse the aging process, as if aging is somehow shameful. Sure, I’d rather not age, but what’s the alternative? Don’t make me get into that shoe bus! Isn’t it a gift to grow old? The gift that keeps on giving me low back pain and osteopenia.
Should I start hiking with a weighted vest?
If you don’t qualify to be a real housewife, where do you go? Andy Cohen won’t return my calls.
How will I know when it’s time for a walk-in bathtub?
My best days seem to be behind me no matter how many retreats I attend, moons I howl at, or serums I slather. My face, boobs, and spirits are all sagging…
That is until July 21, when the young, spritely, powerful, energetic, joyful, pale-blue pantsuited Vice President Kamala Harris was catapulted into the spotlight of American politics, making me feel young again—like spring has sprung… like there were songs to be sung… songs sung by Beyoncé and Megan Thee Stallion.
At 59, not only is Kamala Harris useful, relevant, and viable, but she could end up being the next president of the United States! The president of this great and complicated nation. How can that be? Does she still have anything to offer? The answer is, thankfully, yes. A lot. Intelligence, experience, drive, tenacity, and fearlessness. This is (almost) 60. Her ability to meet a crucial moment head-on was inspiring to watch and galvanized women and their book clubs across the nation. In this race, she is the whippersnapper! And her skin is so dewy.
Sure, the vice president may have some of the same physical issues I’ve referenced, but she’s not letting them stop her, so why should I? Seeing her energize a giant crowd, firmly yet calmly shoot down hecklers, and laugh off Trump’s racism, was the balm my aching muscles and creaky pelvic floor needed. Thank you, Kamala Harris, for showing us that no matter how old you are, a woman’s best days (and our country’s) are in front of us. I may no longer have perky boobs or lubricated joints, but I can still laugh, learn, cry, read, contribute, travel, love, lose, work, twerk, rest, and vote.
What an exciting time to be a middle-aged woman!
Gaby Allan is an Emmy-winning writer of Veep and Scrubs. Her picture in her Daily Beast author profile is old. It was only slightly airbrushed and her hair is no longer this color. She writes with Jen Crittenden, who consulted on this and fixed all the grammar mistakes. So, if you have issues with the comma placement, blame her.
