The Gothel dilemma

I love a Negroni. It's been one of the defining features of 2020 for me. After hearing it was Sam and David Cameron’s drink of choice - one which they apparently glugged down before facing the press after losing the Brexit campaign - you’d think I’d have gone off them. I didn’t; if anything it made me love them more (Negronis not the Camerons). If I was about to face a behemothic disaster of my own making, it’s exactly the drink I would want: strong, reassuringly Italian, and brimming with fuck you elegance. 

But there’s always been a problem with my homemade Negronis: they’re a bit ‘meh’. Not undrinkable but nowhere near as nice as the ones you get in a good bar - the ones with the giant ice cubes that cost £12 and make you feel like you’re her out of The Queen’s Gambit. With a little help from a friend (we’ll call her Negroni Guru), I discovered what the problem was; I had the wrong vermouth. Turns out if you want a great Negroni, you’ve got to fork out for a fancy one (I’m sure Sam and David already know this). And if you want a fancy vermouth, you go to Waitrose, naturally. So off I went. 

I found the vermouth (Cocchi Vermouth Di Torino, if you want to know), grabbed a pack of Choco Leibniz, a Cornish Camembert, six yoghurt suckies and went to the till. It took me a second to realise what the woman behind the till was saying to me. Did I hear correctly? Surely not? But yes! She really did say it - the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard…

‘Have you got any ID?’

Thankfully, the mask hid the gigantic, deranged smile on my face. 

‘No’ I say, wide-eyed - diligently playing the part of my new-found youth - trying to hide my absolute glee, ‘I’m 40’

‘I can’t sell it to you without ID I’m afraid’.

Well, Merry Christmas to me! Screw the Negronis! Who wants red vermouth when a real live human thinks you look under 25? I was about to take my child-friendly treats and skip out when, for some reason (Negroni), I said ‘Hang on’, and pulled down my face mask. 

‘Oh. Ok, that‘s fine’ said the cashier. And just like that, I crashed down to Earth with a two-stone-heavier-than-usual bump. 

What was wrong with the bottom half of my face? Do my eyes look under 25 while the rest of my face looks like Mother Gothel before she’s kidnapped Rapunzel?

I told myself to ignore the depressing conclusion (I look entirely my age or perhaps even older) and instead focus on the bit where she thought I was a sub-25 year old debutante. That bit still happened. IT STILL HAPPENED. It may have been short-lived but it happened. I immediately Whatsapp voice messaged my two best friends to tell them. When I got home I told my husband and as I was telling him I was hit by a sudden realisation. How was this ok? Why was I so happy, so validated by a woman momentarily thinking I looked younger than my age? Why was I so disappointed when she didn’t?

A few days prior to this I’d been speaking to a friend about 90s culture: the blatant and relentless objectification of women, the insidious male gaze, how blind we’d all been to gender politics. What a relief that we’d finally reached a time of relative enlightenment, where we don’t only show our midriffs if we’re skinny, where we wear things we like rather than what looks ‘sexy’, where we actively try not to measure our worth by our appearance, where we celebrate female diversity: race, age, weight. 

Apparently I didn’t get the memo. 

Despite knowing the things, despite reading the books like a good feminist, despite avidly liking every Insta pic of a plus-sized model, I’ve drunk the Koolaid and I’m not sure I can undrink it. In theory I’m there, 100% on-board: age is just a number, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my value isn’t based on my looks yada yada yada. But in reality I’m terrified of growing old, of people happily believing I’m 40 without question. I’m terrified of my neck sagging, of my eyelids drooping, of my make-up gathering in cracks and crevices. I’m terrified of becoming invisible, of being too old to wear certain clothes, of never getting checked out again. I want to look 25, I want to be 25 for God’s sake! I want the retinol, the vitamin C serum, the Botox. Anything to stop time. If I don’t want to grow old ‘gracefully’, what is that? Disgraceful?

It may sound like I’ve got a major hang up, but I haven’t. I don’t think I have anyway. It’s not something I think about that often. But I can’t lie, I’m not that into the whole aging thing. Yes, I feel much more confident now than at 25. Yes, I’m physically stronger now than ever before. Yes, I have my health, my family, and feel very privileged. But what about my arse? A few weeks ago my seven year old daughter told me I had a ‘flimsy bottom’. Flimsy. She literally couldn’t have picked a more horribly evocative word. Flimsy. Like a scraggly bit of cling film or one of those wafer thin carrier bags. ‘It’s like there’s no muscle in it at all’, she mused - like it was nothing to worry about, just a gentle, passing observation. 

‘My bottom is telling my age’, I said. 

‘Will it get more flimsy?’ she replied.

‘Yes.’

‘Mummy’s bottom’s going to get more flimsy, Xavi!’

‘Oh. My. God. Like lumpy jelly!’ Shrieks of laughter etc etc.

Obviously I laughed. I wasn’t bothered at all. And the Flimsy Bottom song they made up was very funny. So, why was I so relieved when they announced that my husband (who has a perfectly pert and peachy buns-of-steel type butt) also has a flimsy bottom? ‘Not as flimsy as mummy’s’ - let’s not be crazy - but still, flimsy nonetheless. Perhaps my arse wasn’t that bad after all? If his butt is flimsy, whose isn’t? The flimsy threshold must be incredibly low. Guys, guys, my arse is ok, right? 

You see, too many ‘wrong’ ingredients have gone into the pie that is my self-image. I’m trying hard to pick them all out but it’s tough - they’ve seeped into the sauce. Forgive me for speaking on your behalf, but if you’re a woman of my age or older, I’m gonna go ahead and presume it’s the same for you. I grew up in the 80s and 90s, so there’s that. Waifish, teenage supermodels, the endless, open obsessions with weight, lad culture, FHM, Rear of the Year - you know the drill. Looking back, it plays like a Black Mirror-esque, dystopian nightmare; nothing short of female attrition. Plus my parents are Iranian, so there’s that. In case you don’t know, Iranians aren’t known for their ‘beauty is only skin deep’ attitude; they’re more: ‘show me the way to the plastic surgeon’. My mum (who looks like she’s got an aging painting of herself in the attic), has, as far back as I can remember, gazed into the mirror and mourned her fading youth. Even when she was 35.

This isn’t a 10,000 word essay so I won’t go deep, deep into it, but it’s safe to say I care what people think about how I look. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not my most valuable currency - I’d be a bit screwed if it was - but it is a currency nonetheless. I’ve done many a school run with no make-up, scraped back hair, dressed in random clothes that I found on the floor. Spoiler: I’m not exactly Beyonce. But there’s a line. The fundamentals matter to me - especially aging. No matter how hard I fight against this thinking, I struggle to accept it. I don’t want to see age creeping across my face, leaving it’s indelible marks. It makes me feel some sympathy for old Mother Gothel. 

*Disclaimer: I would never abduct a baby and keep them imprisoned so I could use their magical hair to keep myself looking young - and I don’t condone anyone else doing it. 

But I understand her desire to cling on, that deep yearning for her youth. The longing to stay young and, by virtue of that, beautiful. She simply can’t let go. I, for one, get it.

I’ve made my peace with the fact that I’ll never again have a non-flimsy bottom or a flat stomach but I’m not ready to grow older. I’m an unwilling participant. I don’t want to be grandma at a nightclub. I want to be her over there with the ironic mum jeans, sipping a rum and coke, wearing nothing on her face but a who-gives-a-shit lick of mascara. Why? Because in the end, there’s not much in this world more delicious or beautiful than youth. It’s not just about looks. Nor can it be pinned entirely on society, media or culture. Those things exacerbate the problem - particularly for women - but it’s more than that. It’s something intrinsic in us: perhaps a desire to step back from mortality, a need to feel as visible as we once were, as desirable, as relevant. Whether it’s the pernicious male gaze or not, we want to be gazed upon a bit, by someone, sometimes. I bet if you ask any woman if they’d rather look like themselves at the age of 45 or 25, most - maybe all - would pick their more youthful self. So what? It’s all moot. 

Whether you fight it or succeed in embracing it, the devastating yet reliable truth is one we know well: we’ll all end up like Mother Gothel in the end. Not falling out of a 100 foot tower to our grisly doom, but wearing the unmistakable passage of time on our faces. Sure, you can fend it off for a moment. You can board up the door before you cower in the corner, screaming - but in the end, time will hack through with an axe and poke its ugly head in. It’s entirely futile - we can’t outrun it. That’s why I’m determined to make my peace with it, one day. I don’t want to get my kicks - or such big kicks -  from a cashier ID’ing me - because it’s not real. It’s a mirage. You reach out to touch it, and it’s gone, along with parties that start at midnight and your non-flimsy arse. Maybe that’s why I’m clinging on. My butt’s already gone. Dead, deceased; it went quietly, without me even noticing, until one day it was simply announced flimsy. My face is a different story. I see it every day. I see the dulling of my skin, the fact that I can’t look fresh without a little help from Nars, the lines that won’t come out in the wash. I can’t stop it. I can, however, choose how much I let it engulf me. 

That’s why I’m making a resolution this year: to let myself be 40, for better or worse, in grace or disgrace. Grieving for the lost glow of youth won’t bring it back; it can only serve to make me feel less. Likewise, trying to rewire my brain to not seek any kind of validation is unrealistic. It is, like most things, a fine balance: acknowledging that aging is not ideal, unashamedly enjoying what I deem to be a compliment (thank you woman in Waitrose for that glorious 20 seconds), and magnifying the positives of getting older. Like the joys of making a perfect Negroni.