“I have pimples in my scalp,” said Diane, running her hands through her brown hair for emphasis. “The acne is unreal. It’s on my chest, shoulders, everywhere!”
Diane and I had met up to discuss our goals and hopes for 2025, but what was supposed to be a strategy session turned into a mutual therapy session. We lamented the changes in our skin, the unexplained weight gain, the night sweats (dear God, the night sweats!), and the seismic shifts in libido. Hers has rocketed through the roof, while mine has cratered. For a woman who runs a sex blog, a total disinterest in participating in the pastime is not exactly good for the brand. But you can’t change your biology. It is what it is. I literally don’t have a fuck to give.
We are both in our 40s. Diane is 45, while I turn 47 this weekend. On a recent weekend getaway to Cape Town, I was told by a waiter and a shopkeeper that I had to be lying about my age. They were both in their 20s.
“Nah, but you look amazing! I thought you were in your 30s…maybe 33? But 47! Wow…”
And what exactly is a 47-year-old woman supposed to look like? Then I remembered my own views about aging women from my 20s and cringed. Back then, I fully expected to look and dress like Bea Arthur in her Golden Girls era by the time I hit 45. Nothing could be further from reality.
As an avid reader of Cosmo and Elle in my 20s, I was programmed to believe that a woman’s beauty fades in her 30s and that she will eventually become invisible to society by the time she hits 50. But let me tell you—those magazines lied.
I don’t spend too much time obsessing over my age. I’ve had so many friends pass away young that my focus is on being grateful to be alive, not how many years I’ve managed to tuck under my belt. Honestly, I often forget how old I actually am, which is probably why people mistake me for 10 years younger. Were I sold on the idea that a woman becomes obsolete after middle age, I might orient my life that way. But I’ve seen the opposite: women over 40 who exude vitality and confidence, despite what society may suggest.
And then there’s this idea of invisibility. Let’s talk about it.
Now that I’m a homeowner and can afford fairly nice things, and my kids are older and less likely to break said things, I’ve discovered something amazing—I like being home. When you’re young and starting out, your home is often a shared apartment overlooking a barren parking lot, furnished with hand-me-downs, vibes and optimism. OF COURSE you want to leave as often as you can. But when you reach the stage in life where you can finally enjoy the fruits of your labor—to sip expensive liquor and lounge around in a silky boubou—what inducement is there to go outside?
It’s not that women my age don’t wish to be seen. We simply don’t need to be. We aren’t seeking anyone’s approval, and that’s what the magazines, the movies, and the memes have all gotten wrong. The popular notion is that we’re invisible because society no longer values us. The truth? We’re just inside the house.
Outside, there’s traffic, catcalls, and rude cashiers who tell you to “have a blessed day” in a tone that suggests they’re praying for your swift demise. Inside, there’s peace, central heating, and a fridge stocked with gourmet cheeses that you don’t have to share. Why would I leave this paradise? For the privilege of paying $7 for a lukewarm cappuccino? I think not.
But let’s not forget the true blessing of midlife: perspective. When I was younger, I spent far too much energy worrying about what others thought of me. Was I too loud? Too opinionated? Too much? Now, I relish being “too” anything. Too loud? Turn up the volume. Too opinionated? Start a blog. Too much? Baby, I am just getting started.
Diane and I laughed about all of this as we sipped juiced ginseng and carrots and discussed our plans for the new year. Sure, we miss certain things about our youth—elastic skin, unbridled energy, the ability to metabolize carbs. But we’ve also gained so much: confidence, wisdom, and the radical audacity to prioritize our own comfort.
So, to anyone who claims women over 40 are invisible, let me set the record straight. We’re not unseen because our beauty has faded or our relevance has expired. We’re unseen because we’re inside the house, living our best lives. And if you want to find us, you’re going to have to bring wine—the good kind, not that cheap stuff we drank in our 20s. Cheers to aging however you want to: With style, grace or unbridled ratchetness.