The Most Interesting Woman in the World

The other side of the story, dedicated to my fellow grey hairs and getting-there grey hairs

I love reading Sean Kernan. He’s a fellow Floridian, he’s smart and funny and I love his marketing pieces. I especially, especially love what he writes on dating, albeit I don’t always agree. That’s what makes him fun to read.

Several days ago I read this from him, one in a long line of genuinely interesting pieces about The Stuff We See Pushed by Marketing Moguls:

Perhaps this, for me, and for all my esteemed female buddies out there, was the biggest takeaway piece. Part of Sean’s story is how Goldsmith landed the Dos Equis job. Here is the excerpt:

However, the directors said they loved Goldsmith but he was too old. His agent then pushed back during the call, “How can the most interesting man in the world be young?”

That, in a nutshell, is the whole fucking point.

With my heartfelt thanks to Sean for making the point for me- albeit unintentionally- is the massive lie of youth, and the horrific Koolaid that women (people) are not of interest unless they are young, perfect and lovely.

Unwrinkled, unsullied. Inexperienced, virginal in fact.

You will note that in the Dos Equis ads, the Most Interesting Man is ever surrounded by a bevy of very young (uninteresting) women.

I’ve had a number of delightful people write me, upon reading some of my articles, that I qualify for the female version of the Dos Equis man.

I might. I’m no Jane Goodall (who by god DOES qualify) but I could make a run for it. I’m a skydiver, scuba diver, damned good horsewoman, river rafter, kayaker and explorer. That’s the short list. I’ve worked for two sitting Presidents, lobbied at the highest levels of government, explored 47 countries, climbed two huge mountains and ridden horses and elephants and camels in some of the most remote parts of the world.

I’ve written two-prize winning books, won national awards for my diversity work, brought audiences of a thousand to their feet with a speech, and am a prize-winning journalist.

I could go on a long time, but because I’m a girl, I’m not supposed to brag.

However, it ain’t braggin’ if you’ve done it, and I’ve by god done it. I still am. I walked away mostly intact from flipping my car at 65 mph, from breaking my back in eight places after being thrown from a running horse, and smashing my pelvis in Iceland. Walked. To help. I self-medicated and wrapped my own wounds during a seven-day camel trip across Tanzania.

I’ve massaged tigers, camels, elephants, donkeys and horses. All over the world.

I’ve got a genius IQ, a wicked ass sense of humor and a body to beat the band. I’ve been lifting for 46 years and on my 67th birthday did 100 men’s pushups.

Just before the quarantine, I was in Kenya, by horse, riding the Maasai Mara, crossing a swollen stream full of hippos and crocs.

But I’m old. And I have wrinkles.

Which, for this youth-obsessed society, makes me about as valuable as a piece of used toilet paper.

The older women I know, and with a very respectful tip o’ the tam to a number of very smart, very capable and very interesting younger women whose material I very much enjoy (Kris Gage, Gillian Sisley and others, you know who you are), the women I find the most riveting have all got wrinkles and grey hair.

We have earned them.

And we are spurned for them.

Rosennab and Kristi Keller and Margaret Kruger, Roz Warren, Helen Cassidy Page, the plethora of extraordinary, talented, capable and outright gorgeous older women whose work I admire, whose brains and courage humble me deeply, all got there only through life. The prices of being alive, being willing to be scarred by life and get back up anyway.

We are sexual assault, incest and rape survivors. We are intensely smart and determined. And we will not be silenced by a society terrified by aging. We ARE aging. We are aged. And yet we hit the gym, hit the trails, hit life back when it slams us in the face.

Our bodies and faces show it.

The costs of loss and love and life. They have carved a thousand stories on our cheeks while society attacks us for having the temerity to age. To become exquisitely fine wine.

How dare we.

The very things that make us interesting are the very things that society hates most: an aging woman.

While I can appreciate the unsullied beauty of a twelve-year-old model, give me an hour in the company of an older woman (or man, thanks) any fucking day.

And there are people like this commenter setsail who wrote:

My wife, life partner is soon to be 65 and is more beautiful with each passing day. Her hair is natural and graying, she’s strong and constantly “putzing”, from stacking firewood, to gardening, to walking through the woods with her camera ready. We’ve had untold adventures over the years, exciting and at times energizing. She, a former Army nurse…me, a former liaison between the US military and the Vietnamese people.

You have got to love such a man. I surely do. While I’ve not met anyone who is willing to enjoy what I have to offer, I tip my hat to those who love, admire, celebrate and give daily thanks to the greying goddesses in their lives who are truly damned interesting.

We’ve earned it. And no, for the most part, we don’t need a bevy of beautiful, vacuous baby boys hanging on our every word to help us feel interesting or important. We know we are. We never ever stop working at it.

That’s not bragging. It’s a fact of life.

You and I don’t even truly begin to be interesting until life has begun to express itself in our expression lines. Laughter, pain, joy, agony, the wild heights and depths.

I have explored the top of Kilimanjaro and the Danakil Depression, one of the lowest places on earth, breathing in the sulfuric fumes and then spending the night under the stars of Ethiopia, with only the hot, dry wind and the animals for company.

Beauty and youth don’t make you interesting. They make us baubles.

Life makes us interesting. Character is built and tested and bloody well earned.

I don’t need a beer campaign to make me interesting. Neither do you. All you need is to be fearless about being in life, scoffing at the lies that age makes you worthless.

Age, my friends, makes you worthwhile company.