40 is the new…50?

I turned forty last year.  Tim threw me a delightful party with friends and indulged me in some of my favorites-pizza, chocolate, and a promise to take me to New York once our house was paid off (which actually happened 7 months later).

Turning forty wasn’t a huge deal for me.  Maybe having a one-year-old gave me a false sense of youth.  I’m still in my child-bearing years-I must be young!

And then the gray hairs started coming in.  I know, I should count myself lucky that it took this long.  Most of my friends have been dyeing their hair for years.  They probably assumed I was too.

It’s funny, cause I’ve always taken a measure of pride in my lack of vanity.  I’ve never spent much time on my appearance-my clothes, my hair, my makeup.  Most days I roll out of bed, clean my face and brush my hair and teeth and call it good.  If I left the house, I’d take it up a notch by throwing on some eyeliner.  And a bra.  Maybe.

But that’s just not cutting it anymore.  I thought I wasn’t vain but now that I’m starting to look my age, dyeing my hair doesn’t seem so bad.  I sorta get why the beauty industry is worth $265 billion dollars.  My share of it just might increase this year.  (From like $50 to $100 tops).

If I’m really honest, though, I don’t want to care.  Because my worth has nothing to do with my appearance.  I realize most everyone knows that. But do our actions reflect it?

I remember standing in front of my bathroom mirror one time when my girls were still little. I was applying a bit of makeup, probably in preparation for a date with my hubby.  Anna asked, as only a young girl can, “Mom, why are you putting that stuff on your face?”

I didn’t know what to say.  I probably mumbled something lame about having to cover up a zit(whoever said those would go away in adulthood was a big, fat liar).

Her response: “But why?”  I might have muttered a few words about wanting to look pretty for dad.  What I DO remember is how pointless makeup seemed while trying to explain its purpose to my 8(ish) year-old daughter.

I mean, was I really trying to impress Tim?  He sees me without makeup all the time and still loves me.  And, as a side note, some studies have shown that men prefer make-up on the light side rather than a more done-up look on women.

I certainly don’t think there’s anything wrong with looking one’s best.  I buy new clothes, style my hair (once in a blue moon) and wear makeup at least half the time.  I realize there is a level of personal satisfaction that comes from feeling attractive.  I’m not sure where that comes from and I’m dubious that I should cave to the pressure of that voice in my head.

Because let’s face it.  We’re all going to get old someday.  My boobs are gonna sag (already do), wrinkles will take over, age spots and gray hairs will multiply.  How much time and money am I willing to spend to stem the tide of aging?  And, more importantly, what message am I sending to my sweet daughters about the importance of my appearance through my own actions?

I don’t know if I have the answer.  What I do know is there’s a balance to be found, and I fear that our society places far too much emphasis on physical beauty.  I personally hope to set an example for my girls that steers them away from that focus.

And judging by the fact that we forget school picture day almost every year, I think it might be working.