When Your Husband Ages Like A Fine Wine

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On a recent Saturday, my husband came home glowing after a morning of playing basketball with friends. It wasn’t just the dew of fresh sweat that radiated; he was basking in the compliments he received from his much younger teammates.

“You can’t be older than 33,” they guessed.

He’s 46.

While I was immediately a tiny bit proud of him — after all, he is my husband — I was mostly annoyed. Just that morning, I’d been staring in the mirror, tweezing stray gray hairs and studying the new wrinkles around my eyes that crept up overnight. He’s hitting his stride as we race downhill to 50, and I feel like my aging process is stuck on fast forward.

The double standard stings.

I invest more money than I care to admit in hiding those pesky gray hairs, while my husband is lauded as a “silver fox” for the distinguished gray coming in at his temples.

I slather on daytime cream, nighttime cream and serums galore in an unwinnable battle against wrinkles; my husband uses the same lotion on his face that he smears on his legs and has nary a crow’s foot.

It’s not just my reflection whispering this unfair truth. Halle Berry noticed, too, saying in a recent interview, “Women, as we age, we just get old, right? Men get sexy.” Other celebrities like Gwyneth Paltrow and Sarah Jessica Parker have called out the unfair cultural expectations that differ vastly between men and women.

Consider the language used. Older women are “hags” or “crones.” While “cougar” might be more affirmative, it’s not a term I want to be called. Men, on the other hand, get to be a “silver fox” or “zaddy.” Yes, some might be “codgers” or “geezers,” but those aren’t the terms used to describe my handsome husband.

He’s aging like fine wine, and I feel like expired milk.

I didn’t used to be so self-conscious. I was recently digging through old photo albums, examining images from my college and early marriage days. Maybe it was the quality of the film, but my skin was nearly flawless. Sure, my trendy hairstyles were sometimes regrettable, but my eyes sparkled with a zest for life and I wore the fashions of the day without seeming like I was trying too hard.

I looked beautiful then, and as I recall, most days I felt that way, too.

Now I catch my reflection in a storefront window and think, “Who is that old woman?” The transition happened so quickly.

Maybe that’s what I wrestle with more than anything — the realization that time marches on. My college years feel like yesterday and now my sons are in college. I blinked and suddenly found myself a middle-aged woman searching for my reading glasses just to read the menu. Instead of the 19-year-old posing in front of yachts in a little black dress at the French Riviera, I’m the 40-something woman fruitlessly scouring ads for the just-right potion to roll back the clock.

I internalize my insecurity around aging, but if I’m not careful, I might miss the miracle right in front of me. My handsome husband still chooses me, loves me well and tells me I’m beautiful — inside and out — every single day. My mind and body are healthy, allowing me to exercise, enjoy my loved ones and engage with the incredible world.

I am, as Shakespeare wrote, “Wealthy in friends,” who don’t care about my pesky grays and fine lines because they have some, too. In conversations with them, I feel less alone and more accepted.

The woman looking back at me in the mirror is as young as I will ever be. And while that’s too obvious to be a revelation, the knowledge empowers me. Studying myself through a lens of gratitude and gentleness, I feel confident again, even if cultural standards and societal messaging may no longer say the same.

These small mindset shifts help me as I enter this new stage of life. I want to keep living, and that means I need to accept this aging body. It’s the only one I get.

That doesn’t mean I won’t try another tempting cream or research blepharoplasty. I’ll still whine to my husband about how unfair it is that he looks so young while my forehead creases like my well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice.

I will, however, try to see my face the way my loved ones do — with appreciation, not judgment.

And I’ll smile inside when I hear my husband complain about his skinny wrists. At least he’s not perfect.

 
Do any of you feel like this writer does? Let us know in the comments below.