By When I met my husband, I was 25 and he was 37. I was instantly attracted and knew deep in my bones that I was in the right place at the right time. Our meeting was *meant to be* and I knew it like I know my favorite color is pink.
Him? Not so much the same feeling. Why? Well, there are probably multiple reasons why, but the main reason was our age gap. He was entirely uncomfortable with it. He saw walking around with a 25 year old as borderline inappropriate and somewhat embarrassing. He wasn’t a man who saw a younger woman as a catch or something to broadcast or hold up as a trophy.
Luckily, my personality won him over.
But I’d like to take a moment to appreciate that part of our story. It has grown on me over the years. As I age, and as I am now approaching the age he was when we met, I can start to see through his eyes. Next year when I am 37, how will I view a 25 year old? Well, let’s be honest. I’m already seeing them as much younger than me – like… a lifetime younger.
As I’ve aged, I’ve had some moments of taking issue with my skin or aging process in general, just like any normal white American woman. I cried deeply on my 30th birthday.
Meanwhile, as each new wrinkle forms, my husband tells me that he loves my “maturity lines.” He is delighted with my aging and loves each passing year he has with me. I have countless scars from skin issues I’ve encountered, and he couldn’t care less about them. I notice my neck starting to change, and I don’t think he even notices whatsoever.
I think it’s a relief to be with someone now far from their 20s, and I don’t blame him at all.
At first I was perplexed. In a rare movie-like-romantic-moment when he’d line my face with his hands and caress my cheeks and jaw, his eyes would seem to sparkle as he told me yet again, “I love your face.” I’ve scoffed and laughed his words off and said, “Sure you do,” and without blinking he would remind me that he truly loves it. He loves my aging body. He loves every new wrinkle. He loves the unkempt wildness of myself that culture will tell us needs to be kept up via waxing and visits to a salon.
He loves that I am a woman. An aging woman. A woman with life behind her and in front of her. A woman with agency. A woman of strength and passion. A woman who knows her worth.
Now, I am not so perplexed. It makes sense. It is just as it should be. Aging is a gift and the more weathered and wrinkled a body is, the more beautiful it truly becomes. Anyone with a different opinion needs to seriously take a look deep inside themselves. We need to ask the now common question: Who profits from my shame around aging? Who benefits? And with all that the world has revealed lately, I can’t stop thinking about this. I can’t stop thinking about how I got one of the good men. I know there are more, but boy, there are plenty who are not.
The depravity it takes to be a grown adult and lust after youth is one that I sincerely hope rots in hell – If I believed in such a place. On this Valentine’s Day, I would urge all women to take a good look in the mirror and sincerely thank your body for getting you this far. For aging. For developing wrinkles and lines from all the talking, smiling, crying, raging, and walks in the sunshine that we’ve been lucky enough to have. For protecting our organs so we can function. For getting us from point A to point B… whatever that looks like now.
And lastly, take a good long look at the world that has TRIED to condition us into wanting to look eternally youthful.
Who is that for?
Not the good men, I can tell you that much.
Israel and Melinda 