Gravity Sucks

by Alderson, Maggie

  After experiencing an initial knee-jerk horror response – ‘Who are these people?’ – I was mad about them. They were like a super-race of Andrea Dworkins who didn’t play by the rules. I like to think that they hadn’t let themselves go, with all the lazy passivity that term implies; they had simply let go. As in let go of all the imposed ‘shoulds’ women allow ourselves to suffer under.

  ‘She’s really let go’ has quite a different ring to it, don’t you think?

  Slap and tickle

  I was stolidly pressing concealer onto my cheeks the other day when it suddenly struck me: I no longer gaily dust on my make-up to enhance my features; I use it to build my face, like a character actor or a drag queen.

  No wonder they call it slap. Time was when cosmetics caressed my face with a light touch; now it’s more like the back of a hand across my chops as I pile it on in layers.

  Like all the major landmarks of ageing I have experienced so far, I acknowledged this shift with a sudden, punch-to-the-guts lurch. One minute it seemed getting ready to face the world meant a whisk of blusher, a stroke of eye shadow, a quick once-over with lip pencil and gloss, a lick of mascara and off we go. Foundation was only for special occasions.

  Now I have to use two kinds of concealer. One to cover the red marks of rosacea (I think that’s what it is) on my cheeks and chin; the other to erase the dark shadows under and around my eyes. Then it’s foundation over the top to even out the impasto.

  The smudgy eye pencil that used to be an occasional diversion is now essential to cover up the persistent cysts on the roots of my lower lashes, which the eye specialist has counselled me to leave be.

  I have long used a corrective, flesh-coloured pencil to even out lips rendered slightly irregular by (non-cosmetic) surgery, so that’s nothing new, but the constant moisturising of the lip area to prevent the hen’s arse look is.

  The cheek colour that used to be like a warm kiss (such a well-named product, ‘blusher’), is now more like a restorative, breathing life back into the cadaver and giving a look of plumpness to the sag.

  Eye shadow that I used to stroke on boldly for what I thought was a fetching Greta Garbo effect now disappears into the pachyderm folds of my eye sockets unless applied to exactly the right spot.

  But while that all sounds pretty gloomy, it’s really not all depressing. It is true that make-up has moved from optional to essential status in my life, but there is an upside: I am fascinated by its transformative powers.

  The state of my skin, in particular, does require leaving a little more time than before to get ready to go out – even to post a letter – but every time I go through that routine, I step back from the mirror amazed. I look so different after I’ve done it. I hope I don’t look as overtly made up as the aforementioned drag queen, but the transformation is still pretty extraordinary.

  Thanks to the advice of my beauty editor best pal, I think the concealers do their job without too loudly advertising their presence. And if they don’t, will somebody please tell me? (I once had a business lunch with a woman who had one of those rings of unblended foundation – the ones beauty writers are always warning us about – around her jaw and I could not look at, or think about, anything else for the entire meal. I still wonder if I should have said something.)

  But unless I am completely deluding myself, I think my made-up face looks pretty natural. I mean, it still looks like make-up, but not, I think, like cake-up. And it makes me realise how very lucky we women are to have its magical, alchemical properties at our disposal.

  I can entirely see what drag queens get out of the process. They have a weapon denied all other men (give or take the odd Liberace), which means that with the deft application of some trowels of slap they can transform themselves into someone else.

  And with warm fingertips and some overpriced concealer, I can transform myself back into me.

  Strangers on a train

  I really must stop staring at people on trains, but I just can’t help it. People are so interesting. I love seeing what they are wearing and wondering why they have chosen that particular outfit for that particular day. This can keep me amused for hours. Really, I enjoy it much more than watching television.

  Just the other morning I got absolutely fixated on two women sitting just opposite me. One was a little older than the other – in her sixties, I would say. The other was mid- to late fifties. The thing that got me staring and obsessing was that the older one was very much the chicer and I considered it my pressing duty to analyse why.

  She’d done her own hair, I could tell, on rollers, and she did the tinting herself too, I decided. It looked very nice, but it didn’t have the polish of a hairdresser’s professional touch. It was a 1950s sort of style, quite short, perky curls, but in a good way; not a sad, time-warp hairdo.

  She was nicely made up, with a bold lip, which always endears a gal to me (as long as it’s not fluoro pink). This was a sophisticated, deep mid-red that spoke to me of someone who knows how to mix a drink. I was liking this woman more with every moment.

  And I really loved her outfit. She had on the simplest black pants and cardigan with some very nice statement beads, which she wore with perfect insouciance. It looked like she’d had them a long time. They really belonged to her.

  Another piquant note was a pashmina in a very good red – and red is a difficult colour to get right – that was perfect with her lipstick. She also knew how to drape it artlessly round her neck while she was seated, a skill in itself.

  But what really made me super-keen on this woman is that when we got to our destination, she got up and put on a black coat – and then a brown bag. That totally made her outfit for me.

  A black bag would have been way too matchy-matchy, something to avoid in general, but even more so when you are working back a red-and-black ensemble, which can so easily turn you into a walking riddle. (What is black and white and red all over? A newspaper – or an overly natty outfit.)

  The final touch that made me want to hand her my business card and suggest we meet up sometime for a Negroni and a hand or two of kaluki was that she put the brown bag on bandolero-style, across her body.

  That’s how I always wear my favourite brown bag. By this time I felt we were practically related. A feeling which only increased when I clocked her simple black patent leather loafers. This was a woman up from the sticks for the day, and dressed to take on the big city – but entirely on her own terms.

  Her friend, on the other hand, was wearing kitten-heel shoes. Very pretty, but if you’ve ever spent a day mincing along on those tiny heels, you’ll know how irritating they quickly become. She really had a much better bag than her pal, too. It was a very nice red tote, but wedged on over the shoulder of her slightly too-bulky black-and-white coat, it troubled me. I knew that bag would be slipping off her shoulder all day long. Or weighing her down on one side when she finally resorted to carrying it in her hand. Meanwhile her friend would be strolling blithely along with her hands-free bandolero bag and her comfortable shoes.

  As we went our separate ways on the station platform I completed my analysis and concluded that when it comes to style, having the confidence to be comfortable always wins over trying too hard.

  Foot soldiers

  I sometimes feel we are living in a culture so decadent it makes the last days of ancient Rome seem as restrained as a Shaker barn raising.

  There’s bare flesh on open display everywhere, filth all over advertising billboards, hideous spam porno in your email inbox and endless ghastly reality TV shows that celebrate all the worst human characteristics – avarice, envy, selfishness, competitiveness, wind etc.

  Then I open American Vogue and read an article about women who have cosmetic surgery – on their feet. Not elective surgery to relieve painful conditions such as bunions, ingrown toenails, or plantar warts, but completely inessential vanity surgery to make their feet look nicer.

  ‘I got tired of burying my toes in the sand when I went to
the beach. It was humiliating,’ says a 37-year-old sales consultant quoted in the article. A woman who clearly has far too much time to think about herself.

  The crime nature had committed against her? Her second toes were longer than her first. But not after Dr David Ostad had gone in and shaved 2 mm of bone off the second knuckle of said blighted toes. Feeling sick yet? Not Ms MeMeMe; she’s thrilled with it all. ‘The transformation is amazing and I was back in high heels in two months.’ Well, thank GOD. She must have felt like the Elephant Woman of East Hampton before the op.

  ‘More aristocratic, less peasant-like,’ was the request from an unnamed actress to another New York plastic surgeon with regard to her own clodhoppers, which were clearly the only thing between her and an Academy Award.

  The surgeon was happy to oblige (beach house, beach house, beach house) and promptly lengthened her toes with bone-grafting techniques, removed soft tissue from her instep to narrow her feet and administered fat injections to hide unsightly veins and tendons.

  Is there something wrong with me that I find this outrageously vain and self-indulgent? Am I the only mealy-mouthed, self-righteous do-gooder who thinks that the good doctor’s bone-grafting skills could be better used by landmine-maimed children in Africa than by spoiled thespians in Manhattan?

  Not that I’m unsympathetic to women who dislike their own feet. I have several friends who long to wear strappy shoes in summer but feel they can’t, because they have less than lovely tootsies. Rather as I would love to wear skimpy little sundresses and feel I can’t because of my overcatered mammary glands. But you get on with it, don’t you? You ack-sen-chu-ate the positive and move on.

  Not these self-obsessed, over-indulged New York nugget-heads. Consultant podiatrist Suzanne Levine DPM, who, it says in the article, ‘regularly performs surgery in her three-and-a-half-inch Manolos’, also offers a service where she injects collagen into the balls of people’s feet so that they will find high heels less excruciatingly uncomfortable.

  ‘Designer high heels like Sergio Rossis may be gorgeous,’ says Dr Levine, someone I would very much like to slap. ‘But they’re very slight-soled. As you age, your feet become less plump, making these delicate shoes less and less comfortable to wear.’

  Fine. So stop wearing them.

  And it doesn’t end with the collagen. After they’ve had these various foot-perfecting procedures (and probably Botox to get rid of those life-threatening ankle wrinkles), Dr Levine’s clients then return each month for foot facials (hello?) which cost US$225 a time. This makes me so cross the top of my head is itching.

  It’s not that I’m resentful of people having more money than me – so much money they can throw it away on foot facials – or so much spare time they can spend an afternoon a month just having their feet massaged; it’s the overwhelming obsession with the self I find so repugnant.

  Come to think of it, they wore sandals all the time in Ancient Rome, didn’t they? I wonder if Caligula ever had a foot facial.

  Comfortably Middle-Aged

  Many times I have bewailed the unavoidable stepping stones of the ageing process. But having now stepped from First Grey Hair, on to First Deep Wrinkle and, via Chin Bristle, to Sagging Knees, I find that I have reached some kind of island where I can rest for a while before moving on to the next stage (which probably includes HRT and Hip Replacement). I’m thinking of it as Comfortably Middle-Aged.

  Which doesn’t mean giving up and giving in to elastic waistbands and easy-care shortie hairdos, but just a state of contented acceptance. Which is actually a much more pleasant place to reside than Glorious Youth ever was.

  Here are a few pointers which will enable you to recognise whether you have reached the same plateau:

  You wear the same make-up look every day.

  You don’t plan on trying a new hairstyle any time soon.

  You can get quite excited by a new roll of zip-lock bags.

  There are certain cosmetic items that you have repeat-purchased countless times.

  You still buy anti-ageing creams, but you really do know it’s all nonsense.

  You seriously can’t remember where you bought quite a few of your clothes and accessories.

  You’ve had some of them over twenty years and still going strong.

  You’ll never wear a miniskirt again and you couldn’t care less.

  You don’t feel remotely self-conscious in your sunhat.

  You’ve had your watch longer than you’ve had your car.

  You sometimes hold up your face at the sides, while you are looking in the bathroom mirror, to see what you would look like after a facelift.

  Ditto: breasts.

  You want to find out more about those injections that make fat rolls melt away, but aren’t a surgical procedure.

  You really can’t believe that you ever weighed under fifty kilos.

  You travel with your own pillow.

  You travel with your own tea bags.

  You travel with your own little kettle or water-heating element so you’re never very far from a hot beverage.

  You own a flask for transporting same and use it, in public, with no sense of shame.

  You’re thingy about which mug you have.

  That’s enough milk!

  You haven’t had sugar in tea or coffee for years.

  You haven’t smoked for years.

  None of the guests at your dinner parties seem to smoke anymore.

  You can stop after one glass of wine.

  Now just remind me – what is a bikini wax?

  You don’t know which single – or album – is Number One.

  But you do know which non-fiction book is.

  In a hotel room you’ll turn to CNN before MTV.

  You love and worship your digital camera, but you’re still working up to an iPod.

  You’ve got CDs which you also own on cassette and vinyl.

  You hop up and down with rage if anyone retunes your radio away from Radio National.

  You look at the ‘Your Money’ section of the paper first.

  You open bank statements as soon as they arrive.

  You care about the interest rates the way you used to care who was Number One.

  You’ve got friends who are grandparents.

  You’ve been to a fiftieth birthday party. And it wasn’t your dad’s.

  Morning tea is a more enticing event than happy hour.

  You don’t like the look of that Angelina Jolie.

  You can’t believe how young Scarlett Johansson is.

  You really, really hate dance music.

  Now ‘Car Wash’ – that’s dance music.

  You are constantly amazed at how beautiful The Young are.

  You sometimes feel like a filthy old perve when a particularly glorious young man/woman walks by.

  You are starting to feel a bit queasy at the thought of watching Death in Venice ever again, although you loved it when you were twenty.

  You still get just as excited as you ever did about a new pair of shoes.

  Mini ha ha

  We need to talk about miniskirts. Fashion designers seem determined to make us all wear shorter hemlines again, so the issue must be addressed.

  Now, obviously this development is heaven for young gels (not to mention men of all ages). After a winter of pants, it really is the most wonderful feeling of freedom to let your legs roam free. I always know when it’s spring because the day comes when I absolutely can’t bear the idea of putting trousers on, it has to be a skirt. I just wish it could still be a really short skirt, as it was in my younger days, because although I will still wear a shortish skirt with black opaques, there is no way I will be going around in a mini with bare legs on display.

  But I do seriously wonder why I have bought into this self-imposed bit of fashion ageism, because really there is only one thing to say about women over forty wearing miniskirts: AnnaWintour.

  The carpaccioslim editor-in-chief of American Vogue adores short skirts. She�
�s got great legs, she likes to show them off and it suits her. And she definitely won’t see the lower side of fifty again. Fashion’s ultimate authority must be thrilled that the world’s designers have now rejoined her higher on the thigh, at a level not seen since the 1980s.

  What Ms Wintour understands is that great legs are the ultimate status symbol, because they are just about the only physical asset that can’t be achieved through surgery. You can have saddlebags sucked off the thighs and coarse hair lasered into oblivion, but I have never read a reference to ankle-refining. And while I have heard, with my own ears, Russian model agents talking about leg-lengthening, I don’t believe it’s a widely available cosmetic procedure.

  The thing is, breasts can be faked, faces can be lifted, eyes can be almond-ised and even feet can be narrowed, but great shins are bred in the bone. Remember Princess Di’s heavenly racehorse shanks? Generations of selective breeding. Just like Phar Lap.

  Which is why women like the late New York socialite Nan Kempner love to get their skinny legs out and about. In fact, one of the defining characteristics of that city’s ‘Social X-Rays’ – a group of which she was the doyenne – is tiny legs, like bony hair grips. They’re as much an essential credential for membership of that feminine elite as the Sutton Place townhouse and the solitaire diamond the size of a hazelnut.

  The other great thing about legs is that give or take a few troublesome veins – which can now be effectively zapped – you’ve got them for life. OK, your knees do go a bit like a fallen soufflé at a certain point, but as long as you don’t put on much weight it’s not a complete disaster. In fact, those kind of scrawny, wrinkly knees, which Kate Moss is starting to develop, have an attractiveness of their own, rather like Michael Palin’s crinkly laugh lines.

  So while after a certain age you may no longer feel it is appropriate to flaunt your exhausted dugs (and I speak personally here), your upper arms may resemble chicken wings and your abdomen might be blancmange, finely turned ankles and calves remain so and can still be aired and shared with aplomb.