Too Young to Be Old, Too Old to Be Young
I think the last time I was the right age was when I was in school – only because I never skipped or repeated a grade. Everyone was a “peer”, and the only comparisons I experienced were along the lines of “You are not performing to your potential.”
Sure, there were jokes about someone being two months older or how someone born in December was the baby of the class. But, for the most part, age didn’t mean much; the number wasn’t loaded.
Then I graduated, started working, and suddenly, I was too old to be unmarried, too young to understand home ownership, and apparently, too old to watch Disney movies.
“You were born in the nineties? Get out!” (Said by a man. In jest. Poorly, I think.)
“This is something you can only understand when you are in your 30s.”
“I would rather be like you, you know. Wait until you are 50, you are going to be useless.”
Variations of the last two came from women, often in response to my refusal to settle down and have children. While ill-phrased, I can now see they were perhaps well-intentioned at the least. Because it just points to a bigger truth: ageing is not easy for women.
I don’t want to rehash society’s tired scripts about beauty standards, sense of worth, children and marriages, or its fixation on younger = better. Not because they don’t matter, but because I could never subscribe to those standards. As someone who has always lived on the outskirts of “attractive”, “femininity”, and “beauty”, I never even felt like I was part of the competition in the first place to be aged out. And I never felt the need to mould myself into these constructs for visibility, either; I simply accepted my seat on the sidelines. Hell, I made a throne out of it.
Still, beyond society’s gaze, ageing as a woman is hard – our biological clock races ahead, making our decisions for us, while our cycles constantly evolve. I desperately wish we were taught this in school instead of the reductive “puberty -> fertility -> menopause -> now die”.
It seems there’s a new hormonal reign to bow down to every few years – new patterns, new triggers, new symptoms, new discomfort. I used to resent that. I’m now learning that there’s nothing more powerful than understanding yourself and your body: it shapes how you understand the world. And that power feels regal when you consider the evolutionary theory that post-menopausal women are meant to pass on wisdom and knowledge.
So, enjoying the process of ageing feels almost like a rebellion. If nothing else, I mean, I’m just grateful to have aged out of the teenage FUNK. And as I get more comfortable with myself, it’s getting easier to tune out society’s noise about how I’m past my prime or my best years are behind me.
“You want to learn the drums? Isn’t it too late?”
No, your opinion is just too premature.
Yet, I do wonder if someone would tell me I’m too old to have a 5-year-old when I’m 40. Or if I’m too young to be menopausal when I’m 50. Too old for skinny jeans when I’m 60 (Skinny jeans are here to stay, right? We can all agree on that?).
I see signs of ageing in the mirror too – defiant, unapologetic. I bought an eye cream for my crow’s feet recently. But it’s not the fear of ageing, fighting it, or a desperation to cling to youth. It’s just nourishment, tending to my skin after years of self-loathing. That’s one of the reasons I like ageing.
23-year-old Thendral had internalised others’ opinions as her own definition of beauty.
33-year-old Thendral knows she has the autonomy to look however she wants to.
And it’s this autonomy – the ability to make choices and stand by them that I value.
In childhood, I simply followed the path laid out for me. I didn’t like it, I didn’t feel I could do anything about it, I didn’t even dare to question it (hello, eldest daughter struggles).
Now? I can do what I want and hold court with the mess or success that follows.
I have always believed that happiness is fleeting and contentment is grounded. Yet, I also felt there should be some magic – some shimmers and sparkles, perhaps. Journaling taught me that life is the ordinary, and that’s not something I could have grasped 10 years ago.
Sometimes, I worry I have peaked. But this blog tells me otherwise. I see the growth in my writing – in style and clarity. That growth is making me more adventurous – okay, more willing to take measured risks. I’ve come to enjoy the discovery, rather than the outcome, shifting from fear of failure to curiosity, and more importantly, the ability to accept failure. I wasn’t ready for this perspective even five years ago.
And I reject the idea of accepting defeat with the ageing process. I don’t see ageing as something that happens to you; something you passively let happen. I think it’s something you actively understand and engage with.
Sure, if I wanted to, I could talk about how the amount I could eat changed the second I turned 30. One day, I could finish a plate of briyani from my favourite restaurant all by myself, and the next day I had to get it as a takeaway so I could split it between lunch and dinner. Or how the pimples I had until I was 25 disappeared overnight.
But I’m grateful to say, I’ve never felt aged in a way that makes me long for my twenties. Whether I’m 23 or 33 – there are days I am full of life, and days getting out of bed feels Herculean.
I feel healthier now. In the sense that I’m more sure of myself, more accepting, and generally more detached from society’s opinions on my worth. However, I certainly won’t pretend that I’m now less certain about life, less hungry for joy and love, or less naïve. It just means I trust myself more to hold both wisdom and wonder. Which is why I love getting older – I’m curious about the rest of my life because I wonder how it would all unfold.
At this point, I don’t know what the right age is. Is it your 20s when life is an adventure? Your 30s, when you should have a clear plan? Your 40s, when everything is supposed to be more or less stable and somewhat predictable?
I suppose I may never be the right age.
But I’ll always be the right me.
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