A Letter to MAGA From the Aging Women They Despise

Tina Fey once remarked: “The definition of ‘crazy’ in show business is a woman who keeps talking even after no one wants to f— her anymore.” Some members of the Republican Party have taken this sentiment a step further, suggesting that a woman’s value is tied directly to her ability to bear and raise children. For them, the definition of crazy is a woman who continues to work, talk, live, and breathe after her child-bearing years.

If this perspective holds true, then what happens to us after those years? I’ll tell you: Things that were once dry are wet; things that were once wet are dry. Soft places have become bony; bony places have become bonier. Where there was once hair, there is hairlessness, and in places where there should be no hair, errant, bold, coarse hairs are sprouting. Places that were once tight are loose. I could go on, but you’ve probably stopped reading.

I’m beginning to understand why certain older heterosexual men lose interest in women their own age and opt for younger models—we’re just not supposed to be here. JD Vance isn’t the only one with disdain for women; even evolution appears unfriendly. After surpassing our child-bearing years, it seems we are intended to be herded away like cats onto a giant bus shaped like a shoe, driven off a cliff, and never heard from again.

If you insist on hanging around, the sheer amount of hormones, hair dye, therapy, exercise, eyewear, elastic waistbands, supplements, sleep gummies, knee braces, orthotics, and compression socks required to stay “visible,” “viable,” and “relevant” is immense. It’s also not cheap, incredibly time-consuming, and often not FDA approved. It’s like being held together by tape.

Did my toenail just fall off? We live in a youth-obsessed culture that incessantly sells us products to reverse the aging process, perpetuating the idea that aging is shameful. Sure, I’d rather not age, but what’s the alternative? Don’t make me get on that shoe bus! Isn’t it a gift to grow old, despite the low back pain and osteopenia?

Should I start hiking with a weighted vest? If you don’t qualify to be a real housewife, where do you go? Andy Cohen won’t return my calls. How will I know when it’s time for a walk-in bathtub? My best days seem behind me, no matter the number of retreats I attend, moons I howl at, or serums I slather. My face, boobs, and spirits are all sagging.

Then came July 21st, when Vice President Kamala Harris, young, powerful, energetic, joyful, and dressed in a pale-blue pantsuit, was catapulted into the spotlight of American politics. She made me feel young again—like spring had sprung, like there were songs to be sung by Beyoncé and Megan Thee Stallion. At 59, not only is Kamala Harris useful, relevant, and viable, but she could end up being the next president of the United States!

The possibility of Harris becoming president despite her age was inspiring. She embodies intelligence, experience, drive, tenacity, and fearlessness. This is almost 60. Her ability to meet a crucial moment head-on galvanized women and their book clubs across the nation. In this race, she is the whippersnapper! And her skin is so dewy.

Sure, the vice president may face some of the same physical issues I’ve mentioned, but she doesn’t let them stop her, so why should I? Seeing her energize a giant crowd, shoot down hecklers, and laugh off Trump’s racism served as the balm my aching muscles and creaky pelvic floor needed. Thank you, Kamala Harris, for showing us that no matter how old you are, a woman’s best days (and our country’s) are ahead.

I may no longer have perky boobs or lubricated joints, but I can still laugh, learn, cry, read, contribute, travel, love, lose, work, twerk, rest, and vote. What an exciting time to be a middle-aged woman!

Source: The Daily Beast