The other day, my editor sent me a picture of Elizabeth Hurley. You know, the British model and actress who dated Hugh Grant and wore giant gold Versace safety pins held in place by panels of black fabric. (And that is my offensively reductive biography of Liz Hurley for those who didn’t grow up in the ’90s.) Anyway, the picture. Hurley as a Bond girl at a New Years Eve party in a white bikini with breasts up to here, legs up to there, and abs that can’t be faked with self-tanner. Thing is, the picture was a month old. Hurley is 60.
If we’re going to be honest, let’s be honest. There were things we were sold at a young age—let’s call them guarantees. Facts, givens, immutable truths. They were our true north. The earth was round, vaccines were good, and once you hit 50, the great big ahhhh of high-waisted jeans was waiting. Hollywood and the natural order of the world would have no interest in you so you are free to put yourself out to the pasture of flannels and day drinking.
Then we got flat-earthers. Next, anti-vaxxers, science-skeptics, data-deniers, truth-haters. True north became the Wild West.
Honestly, I can live with the idea that facts are now vibes. I can even entertain the possibility that we’re all riding an earth-sized Frisbee through space in a cosmic game of ultimate between the gods.
Just leave 50 alone.
We were told that 50 marked the beginning of…not giving up necessarily, but maybe caring less? Loosening the grip. Softening the edges. Sliding into puff sleeve tops and low expectations. And all the energy that we previously reserved for crunches could now be directed to more fulfilling pursuits than our physical presentation. Actually, it wasn’t even 50.
A few years ago, I was interviewing Jennifer Aniston for Allure. The subject of age came up. (Nicole Kidman, also during an Allure interview, would later tell me that I was “obsessed” with the topic after a particularly persistent series of questions.)
Aniston held up her phone. “Have you seen this?”
On her screen was a picture of Archie and Edith Bunker at the piano during the opening credits of All in the Family. Think back to their ’70s collars, their orthopedic shoes, the vaguely tragic wallpaper, and aesthetic of a retirement home that smells like canned soup. If you remember nothing else from All in the Family, you probably remember the Bunkers were 700 years old.
Above Carroll O’Connor was the number 46.
Above Jean Stapleton: 47.
“It can’t be,” I said.
“It is,” said Aniston.
“It can’t be,” I said again. The bargaining stage of grief.
“We have to fact check,” I said. I did. The TV people that looked to be well past retirement, were comfortably middle aged.
So who moved the goal posts? The answer, at least in part, is Aniston herself—along with every other ageless, unlined celebrity.
Disclaimer : This story is auto aggregated by a computer programme and has not been created or edited by DOWNTHENEWS. Publisher: www.allure.com
