I Don’t Look Good for My Age — I’ve Never Looked Better

Examining the intersection of impossible beauty standards and ageism

CW: Eating disorders

“You look so good for your age!”

Have you heard this one? I’ve been getting it a lot, lately. Perhaps that’ll happen when you’re 47 and decide to show the world the first string bikini you’ve ever dared to own. Or maybe it’s the kind, well-intentioned people who want you to know that your body dysmorphic disorder is seriously messing with your perception. You aren’t as ugly as you think you are — no, you look amazing!

For your age…

I’ll admit it: I kinda hate this. What do you mean “for my age?” Why have people started to add this qualifier to their compliments since I turned 40? Before then, if someone said I looked good, that was that. “You look beautiful,” they’d say. End of story.

So what does my age have to do with anything? Am I crazy, or is there a subtle implication here that I’m lucky to look good after 40? That what qualifies as “good” after 40 is a low bar…hence the “for your age.”

But here’s what really gets me: I don’t look good “for my age.” Not everyone knows this, but I’ll tell you a secret: Today, at 47, I look better than ever.

Beauty is dumb. Can we just get this out of the way? What does it even mean to “look good?”

Our patriarchal culture is so incredibly unforgiving when it comes to beauty standards — particularly those for women. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can never meet those standards, which means you can never truly be considered beautiful.

AI can help. And before that, we’ve had the help of Spanx, contouring makeup, foundation and concealer, curling irons, straightening irons, plastic surgery, and good old fashioned eating disorders.

And even then, you will be constantly criticized because you still didn’t quite meet the standard. Let’s not forget that Margot Robbie, the woman chosen to play Barbie, the American symbol of perfect feminine beauty, is widely considered to be “mid.” That’s right, men find her average in terms of attractiveness, and the criticism of her aging face is one of the trendiest topics on social media.

She’s 33 years old.

Being as Robbie was born on my 14th birthday, there’s definitely no hope for me. If she’s old and mid, then I guess I’m ancient and hideous. One man on TikTok told me I’m “barely a 4.” I honestly felt that was generous. Not because I think I’m a 3, but because it would have been way more of a burn to call me a 1.

What absurdity, isn’t it? Numbering women with a rating system to determine who is attractive? Who is worthy?

I started learning how to deprogram from that many years ago. Because caring about beauty almost killed me.

How do you know you’re beautiful? Simple. Your boyfriend will love you, men will want you, and women will hate you. It’s a very basic formula that all women are taught at a young age.

It doesn’t occur to us that this is superficial and toxic. Who has time to question it on our quest for thin thighs in thirty days? (I literally had a book with that title. It did not deliver on its promise.)

What follows is the real version of the hunger games. Vicious judgments of ourselves and other women, mind games that we play with ourselves, obsessive and compulsive behaviors, and outright, long-term starvation.

Oh, I did it all. Decades of bingeing and purging, compulsive exercise schedules that had me working out sometimes six hours a day, and a yo-yoing weight that pin-balled from 140 to 195 over and over again.

Even with daily exercise (and exercise that often lasted all day long), I was incredibly weak. I had very little muscular strength, low energy, and most of all, my mental health was in the garbage.

It’s hard to be beautiful when you hate yourself that much.

When I look at most photos of myself between the ages of 12 and 40, all I can see is the miserable woman behind the facade of the smiling face. People might comment, “Oh, wow, look how skinny and gorgeous you were back then,” or “Aww, you were so curvy and healthy,” but it doesn’t matter to me.

I was dying inside.

One of the greatest achievements in my healing journey since I turned 40 was how much balance and stability I have found in my eating and exercise habits. I am no longer imprisoned by cycles of bingeing and purging, and no longer beholden to compulsive exercise schedules that prevent me from living my life.

But please note how I worded that. I did not say I am healed, or no longer experience these challenges. I just experience them so much less, that they are no longer norms, but blips.

My weight has remained steady, between 145 and 155, for nearly ten years now. I’ve only had one size of clothing in my closet for the past decade, instead of a range of four different ones.

I’m still painfully self-conscious of my body. I still see someone much bigger than I am in the mirror. I still am prone to drown my sorrows in an extra serving of brownies when I’m stressed and anxious. And I still find myself sometimes going on an extra walk because I’m so conditioned to “make up for” any “extra” calories I might have consumed.

But I am moving toward middle ground, instead of getting lost in the extreme swings. And after thirty years of that horror, I consider this huge progress.

And that’s how I know I’m more beautiful than I’ve ever been.

When people say I look good for my age, I sometimes want to show them old photos of myself. Do you understand I had a hard time focusing on anything but my weight back then? Do you understand I couldn’t do squats with a kettlebell because all the bingeing and purging exhausted my body? Do you understand I had no endurance because I was so busy pushing my body to extremes?

Though I struggle with joint injuries on the regular in middle age, I’m also consistently moving toward a healthier body — and mind. Who knew that in the summer I turned 47, in the height of absolutely exhausting perimenopause, I’d be rucking a heavy backpack up hills and along rivers, growing faster and stronger with every step? Who knew that my latest joint injury would have me doing the most rigorous physical therapy I’ve ever done, which has given my body strength it has never experienced before?

Who knew that improving my health so much would give me the confidence and self-acceptance to wear a string bikini or Daisy Dukes in public?

I don’t look good for my age. Don’t you understand?

I look better than I ever have. Because I’m healthier than I’ve ever been. Because I like myself more than I ever have.

Because I’ve never cared less about “looking good” in the first place.

And what a thrill to discover this. Because perhaps one day, I won’t care, at all. And if things continue to trend in this direction, then by the time I’m in my nineties, I’m going to be the most goddamn stunning creature you’ve ever seen.

Not “for my age.” Just plain old stunning.

© Yael Wolfe 2023

Yael Wolfe is a writer, artist, and photographer. You can find more of her work at yaelwolfe.com. If you love her writing, leave her a tip over at Ko-fi.

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