Okay, I’ve waited long enough. This is getting beyond a joke. Where is it?
I have just turned 52. Where, oh where, is the no-f*cks-to-give era that people have now been promising me for over a decade? When do I get this surge of self-confidence that allows me to shuck off social convention and expectation and move through life unburdened by the petty anxieties and accrued insecurities that the younger years visit upon us? Anyone? Anyone?
I’ve done what I can. As outlined in my last column, I gave in to the lure of GLP-1s and inject myself on the regular with a magical drug that puts me back in a lightweight flesh bag and frees me of much of the self-loathing no amount of stern talking-to seemed to be able to shift (it turns out berating yourself for hating yourself doesn’t work – who knew?). But the downside of that is that it throws what remains into sharper relief.
When I was in the throes of adolescence, I was, like most of us, so acutely self-conscious I could barely walk down the street without suffering violent mental agonies. Dealing with school discos, first nightclubs, and parties was commensurately worse. But – again, like most of us – I took comfort in the thought that one day this would be over. The mean girls and my glasses (I would be able to cope with contact lenses by then, instead of running screaming from the idea of ramming bits of plastic into the softest, jelliest parts of my body), spots and braces (I’m not saying I didn’t offer an incredibly tempting target for the mean girls) would be gone. One day I would be a grown up and live my days untouched and untrammelled by the thoughts and opinions of others, ploughing my own furrow with impregnable confidence.
In my twenties, it did get better. The mean girls, spots and braces did disappear (I never got over the contact lens issue, but I did get much nicer glasses) and I thought I was on the road, lined with stops at the Self-Esteem and Bugger That! service stations, which would see me arrive safely at destination Mental Health and Independence.
Instead, I plateaued in my 30s, and my 40s were a decade of active regression. My self-confidence had increased from teenage levels, for sure (by 35, for example, I think I could have coped with a school disco) – but it couldn’t seem to keep pace with what was being asked of me by society, whether that was at work, at home, as a mother, as a friend, as a woman, as an anything, really. I glommed onto the idea that it was hormone shifts that were eroding what would otherwise be a robust self-image and uniform array of inner certainties, but more and more I look around and realise that it’s probably not.
Which is unfortunate, because of course you can replace hormones and tweak their levels until you feel you are functioning in a reasonable manner. Less so the mad and maddening proliferation of sociocultural requirements that keep being fed to us, not just in growing numbers but in ever-intensifying ways.
What am we supposed to make of the fact that the actresses and pop stars we grew up with look largely the same as they did when they first became stars? And the fact that a large number of them are on the cusp of becoming grotesques through what appear to be numerous surgical and non-surgical interventions because that – apparently – is better than looking your age?
What are we to make of the fuss that still attends any woman – most recently Marie-France Van Heel, a Cambridge-educated business woman who has found herself married to the new prime minister – appearing in public looking less that what others deem perfect? What are we to make of the fact that, even if a woman is making a wanted public appearance, whatever she has to say, whatever her accomplishments are, they will be given no attention at all if she sporting the “wrong”’ outfit or haircut?
What are we supposed to make of the proportion of books that centre protagonists no older than 30 (35, if it’s a real panicker-romance), requiring you to search hard for any reflection of your own stage of life that might help with its navigation, or at least help you feel less alone with all its strangenesses?
What are we to make of the loss of so many feminist gains we saw made in our lifetimes – better reproductive rights, rape laws, financial independence (especially marital), the establishment of rape crisis centres and women’s refuges and so much more – which are now being eaten away by political changes, police failures, new social movements and the rise of online cultures like tradwife and incel influencers who are trading our freedom and safety for clicks?
What are we to make of the focus of so many reports and reactions to the violent death of 78-year-old Ann Widdecombe on her lifelong spinster status and – yes – her haircut and dress sense? Are we suppose to retain our sense of self-worth and confidence in the face of all this and more?
I wish hormones were the answer. I wish.
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