Facing Forty Out from Behind the Wizard’s Curtain

Author not immune to the ageism/lookism anxiety she once thought particular to white women

By Frances Kai-Hwa Wang, IMDiversity.com Asian American Village Acting Editor

I once saw an Oprah episode that featured women so afraid to admit their ages that their own families did not even know how old they were. One woman was so traumatized that she spent her entire thirtieth birthday in bed. Another woman said she would rather people thought she gave birth to her 25 year old daughter when she was 12 than admit her actual age. These women all looked fabulous, at least ten years younger than their actual ages, but the panic in their faces when forced to turn over their driver’s licenses was palpable.

Poor white women, I thought, to be so constrained by white mainstream American culture, obsessed with beauty and thinness and youthful appearances. Thank goodness I am Asian American and do not have those hang-ups. My culture values age and wisdom. Besides, I never celebrated birthdays growing up, so birthdays are not a big deal for me.

Turning Forty

Of course, all this changed on the day of my fortieth birthday when my husband squinted at me from across the room and said, “You look old.” Add on a junk mailing from the AARP—American Association of Retired Persons—inviting me to join, and a recent addiction to the unattainable beauties and cool fashions of Sex and the City. Suddenly, I find myself catapulted into the middle of an obsessive and consuming mid-life crisis.

I never cared much about surface appearances before, except to maybe henna my hair once a year, but now I find myself online late at night researching Retin-A and alpha-hydroxy acid, surreptitiously buying anti-aging and firming creams, putting on lipstick every day, buying new lingerie, and even going to the doctor to remove an age spot that seems to be overtaking my face.

My girlfriends assure me that I am beautiful and intelligent, and I feel fit and strong. I am even back down to college weight, wearing jeans again for the first time in years—my college jeans, by the way. I keep telling myself that I look pretty good for a woman who has had four kids.

However, I wonder if that is too big of a qualifier. I mean, anyone who has had four kids and is still standing probably looks pretty good, considering.

Virtual Stalker

So late at night, I do what I always do to boost my flagging mood. First, I rewrite my bio, trying to see how much more bravado I can possibly squeeze into my one paragraph, which is my public face. I have rewritten it so many times, it is beginning to look more like the cool, boot-clad, fictional character I wish I could be than who I really am.

Then, I post a new photo of myself to go with my new bio, but my mom emails me right away, “You need to buy some new bras, I can see from your photo you’re too saggy.” How can she tell this from a head and shoulders shot?

Next, I start Googling all my old boyfriends and archenemies. I know better than to actually contact any of them, but I do get quite a bit of vicarious pleasure from virtually stalking them late at night. I am dismayed, however, to find how old and gray all my old beaus have become, and how completely unchanged in appearance all my archenemies are (I suppose evil does that to a person). I am particularly distressed to discover that my writing nemesis—a complete idiot—is now successful and famous. I try to reassure myself with reasons—he has a ten-year head start on me, he is not married, he does not have children. Again, the children come up as an excuse.

Finally, I resort to my favorite late night self-esteem strategy—looking for a job or PhD program online (am I model minority or what?). As always, I quickly found the perfect job. It took all my willpower to not let myself actually apply this time, as I realized that the only way I could add yet another job to my already overwhelming schedule would be if I cut down on my sleep from four hours a day to a mere two hours, which would certainly push me over the edge of complete craziness (if I am not there already).

I feel like such a wimp and a weakling for not being more capable. What is wrong with me that I cannot do everything? And do not tell me it is because I have four children.

My liberated self takes issue with how all this angst and turmoil began with three little words, probably just a joke. Here I am killing myself and most likely my husband does not even know what he said; certainly he did not really mean it. So I decide to address it head-on. In my best Dr. Phil technique, I tell my husband how much he hurt my feelings when he said I looked old, to which he simply responds, “But you are old.”

ARGHHH!!!

Behind the Wizard’s Curtain

A few days later, I overheard a Taiwanese woman holding forth about how we as women need to proactively bao hu—protect and maintain, nurture and defend—our looks with special daytime cream, nighttime cream, anti-wrinkle cream, etc. She said our assets are all in our faces, and once the wrinkles hit during our thirties, it is all over. The other women had terrified expressions frozen on their faces as she taught them all the proper anti-aging regimens they must follow or else wake up one day as obaasans, old grannies.

As I stared into her perfectly unlined and unblemished face with her pouty collagen-pumped lips, her silky smooth dyed brown hair, and her youthful designer mini-skirt, I thought, “That is not who I want to be. I do not want to be someone who knows so much about anti-wrinkle creams. I do not want to be someone who cares so much about designer labels. As beautiful as she might appear, I do not want to be her.”

I was reminded of the time one of my archenemies accidentally revealed how much he knew about Rogaine. All of us did a double take—he was in his early twenties then, and had a perfect head of blond hair that never moved. Why would he know anything about Rogaine? Then he pulled back his hair and we all screamed when we saw his temples. It was like the Wizard being revealed behind the curtain.

With that image to make me smile until the end of time, I realize that as soon as you see the little man hiding behind the curtain, the Wizard’s illusion is not so impressive anymore. It would be nice to look good, certainly, but not out of such consuming anxiety and fear. Who has got the time or the energy? (I have four kids, remember.) I know better than to let other people’s opinions control how I feel about myself. Wouldn’t I say the same to a girlfriend? Wouldn’t I say the same to those poor white women on Oprah? As vain and insecure as I might feel sometimes, I refuse to let myself be held hostage by fears about the future and what other people might think.

I am forty years old, already. I have things to do.

Other Recent Readings of Interest

• APA Grrrlfriends
  By Frances Kai-Hwa Wang, Contributing Editor
  Searching for love and women's friendships in an APA Sex and the City