What's the Female Version of a Silver Fox? Glistening Vixen.
Maybe it's because my birthday is looming, but lately i’ve been thinking a lot about aging and how the beauty standards for men aren’t nearly as juvenile as they are for women. Why does society say a woman is only attractive when she looks like a prepubescent girl: wrinkle-free, perky tits, and a hairless body? We don’t hold men to the same youthful standards. Hell, they don’t even hold themselves to those standards. Why do aging men get to be silver foxes while the only nickname we call aging women, GILF, refers to their fuckability level? Why can't aging women get a sexy pseudonym like glistening vixen?
Why do we feel uncomfortable in our own skin as we age? Fighting wrinkles and sagging breasts like the plague. Buying expensive creams and toxic injections like our lives depend on it.
Though I believe every woman (and every person for that matter) should be able to age however they damn well please, I encourage women to think long and hard about the beauty standards they're trying so hard to meet. I've found it much more settling to embrace the changes my body is making instead of condemning them or going out of my way to cover them up.
That’s why I am letting my gray hair spring fantastically from my head. That’s why I am celebrating every new wrinkle that appears on my face. I have spent way too much time analyzing my cellulite and stretch marks in the mirror. I am ready to celebrate this next stage/age of my life.
And the funny thing is, the less hung up I am on meeting unrealistic beauty standards, the more fun I have with life, which then radiates back out making me more beautiful than any $75 face oil from Sephora ever could.
Redefining Our Own Beauty Standards
Aging women are fucking beautiful, (if they own their age.) There is nothing worse than seeing someone desperately clinging to days gone by (and I’m not talking about throwing on a pair of Converses after the age of 40, I’m talking about carrying yourself like the fine wine you are instead of the Capri Sun they've convinced you is tastier to the masses.) There is nothing sexier than seeing a wild woman, gray hairs glistening from above. She’s got a quiet confidence, one that let’s you know she’s been through it all, death and sickness, cheating lovers, and numerous plans gone awry, yet still seems at peace. Because she is. She understands that centeredness, satisfaction and calmness comes deep from within. Nothing could break her if they tried. And oh, how they’ve tried. She speaks her voice when it’s necessary but observes and listens more than interjects and misses. Her calm energy puts you at ease immediately but also unnerves the wild woman lurking within you. If she can be that, so can I. She’s a reminder that beauty isn’t the preservation of youth but the celebration of surviving it.
I’m excited to age. It means I’ve lived. I know my worth doesn’t come from the width of my waist but rather the depth of my infinite soul.