The first time you hear it, it can be shocking, when someone says, “She used to be hot.” Wait, what do you mean “used” to be? What happens when the way we feel about ourselves on the inside no longer matches the outside? Are you still the creamy white interior of the Oreo someone wants to devour, or are you now the rather hard and tasteless chocolate exterior?
After many years with an hourglass figure, now all I long for is to be an aging, skinny French actress who smokes and eats Camembert with no repercussions. I was lucky when I was young to have a female photographer who wanted to do a series of artistic nudes. I thought she was crazy when she wanted me just in hiking boots by an abandoned old stove, but she was right, and she caught me in my prime. But even now, I know that defiant young woman in the woods is still inside me.
Age can creep up on you slowly: the money spent on La Perla lingerie being traded for Chenille Washable Mop Slippers (they are actually great,) the growing aversion to anything with a waistband, slowly drowning in a rising tide of wrinkle creams. When it takes you 20 tries to get a decent selfie.
I have been hot. And I have been not hot. And then I have been hot because of hot flashes, and all I wanted to be is not hot. And then I thought, what does it mean to be hot anyway? I would rather be cool. On all fronts.
Cool because I am smart and well-traveled in life and speak Pig Latin and know the secret to not having a runny pie is minute tapioca. I can win a trivia contest because I know the only fruit that bounces is a cranberry. I can bring my mother’s ashes to a wine tasting and King Kullen because she didn’t get out much. I have a signed copy of “The Second Sex” by Simone De Beauvoir and know my way around a hula hoop. I’ve ridden polo ponies and toured the Rolls Royce factory in Goodwood, England. I have mastered full moon rituals, and when I feel depressed, I put on my father’s World War II cap from his Army Intelligence uniform and dance for democracy, which is dying. I plant roses based solely on their scent because the saddest sight is a woman who receives a bouquet and raises it to her nose, only to be disappointed. I delight when it snows so I can walk to the cemetery to make snow angels for the dead. I practice yoga daily. I am a nationally award-winning writer, and for humor, in case you couldn’t tell. I don’t do TikTok or Ozempic or suffer fools lightly.
We need to get over the first question of whether he/she is hot. What we need to be asking is what is their moral character? What is their value system? Are they kind? Do they take care of the people they love? Are they a good partner and leader? How you look on TV should not be the deciding factor for anything.
Being healthy and fit, of course, is important at any age, but letting go of the judgment is liberating. There’s a reason the crones in fairy tales have all the magical power. They know that what’s on the inside is a rich, vast experience, and they don’t have to take s**t from anyone. Because they would not trade wise for hot any day.
