When I saw the Headline, In Praise Of The 42-Year-Old Woman on an Esquire link this morning, I had little hope that this article, written by a man, would make me feel any other emotion besides rage. I was wrong. It was too stupid to elicit rage.
Let’s face it: There used to be something tragic about even the most beautiful forty-two-year-old woman. With half her life still ahead of her, she was deemed to be at the end of something—namely, everything society valued in her, other than her success as a mother. If she remained sexual, she was either predatory or desperate; if she remained beautiful, what gave her beauty force was the fact of its fading. And if she remained alone… well, then God help her.
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