I just turned 42, and there’s one compliment I’d like to leave back in 41.
“You look good for your age.”
You can end the sentence after “good.” I’ll still get it.
I work out. I like how I look. I don’t need an age adjustment to enjoy that.
But “for your age” makes me want to ask what, exactly, you were expecting. And please explain it without making the compliment worse.
There’s a version of getting older I’m apparently supposed to cooperate with. A little less interest in how I look every year. A quiet retreat from anything that might make someone wonder who I think I am.
I’m not helping with that.
I’ve been married sixteen years. I have two kids. I can raise a family and still care how my ass looks in jeans. Those two things get along fine until somebody decides one should replace the other.
“You still got it.”
Still. Like someone’s been checking the expiration date.
I know the person saying it usually means well. But the surprise in their tone is doing a lot of work.
What bothers me more is what happens after the conversation ends.
I’m shopping, and I put something back because it looks “too young.” I want to try something new and catch myself doing the math on how old I’ll be by the time I’m good at it.
Nobody has told me no. I’m standing in the dressing room doing their job for them.
That’s how a passing comment turns into a private rule. Give it a few years, and I won’t remember where I got it.
I can brush off a comment to someone’s face and still carry their expectations into decisions they’ll never know I made. That’s what I want to watch at 42.
I have real limits. Time is one. Money always gets a vote. I don’t need to add an imaginary committee deciding what’s appropriate for a 42-year-old woman.
I also don’t need to look 25. I already did 25. And I did it well! But there are parts of my life now I wouldn’t have known what to do with back then.
I want to enjoy this age without treating every good thing about it as proof I escaped it.
So I’m trying to catch myself before I put the dress back. Before I decide the window closed on something I haven’t even tried.
Changing my mind is fine. Losing interest is fine. I just want to know whose opinion I’m following when I do.
Liking how you look and wanting someone to guess a lower number are two different wants. Chase the second one long enough and your real age starts to feel like something to hide.
I’m not hiding it.
So when you tell me I look good for my age, here’s what I hear: you had low expectations, and I cleared them.
I’m glad I look good.
Your low expectations are yours to deal with.