The Algorithm Thinks I'm Dying. My Libido Disagrees.
Or Why "Agedivergence" Might Explain Everything
I’m a 52-year old woman and I think about sex a lot.
If you’ve made it this far without cringing because A) I wrote that B) I admitted that C) You have images of The Golden Girls dancing naked in your head D) You’re imagining your mom or grandma chatting with you about their inner sex lives…
If you’ve made it this far without looking at my photo to check and see if that statement is as gross as you imagine it to be…
If you’ve made it this far because you’re genuinely curious and that statement doesn’t surprise you…
Thank you for your service. And one more thing: I have a proposal for you, but I’ll save it until the end.
Certainly, I am far from the first person to point out that one of the last frontiers of bullshit is the belief that women become, um, distasteful over a certain age. I’m not going to reiterate the long history of the various movements to recognize women as human beings with extraordinary natural gifts, and not just objects for pleasure, caretaking, and baby-making. It’s a truly long history that deserves constant reiteration, but I’ve got a shorter, less articulate point I’d like to make which is that many people seem to think that women over 45 are like packaged salad greens: They’re so colorful and tasty right out of the box, but give them a few days in the crisper drawer and they’re compost.
Here are the topics that Instagram and Tiktok think I want to see based, I’m guessing, solely on my birthday. P.S. These headlines are ripped directly from my feed :
Don’t break a hip! Let’s talk about bone density
Getting fat around the middle? Welcome to perimenopause
Doctor tell you to exercise more? Bunions might be holding you back
Can menopause make my v@g*na smell? Everything you wanted to know about hormone replacement (but were afraid to ask)
This is especially weird because of what I seek out on social media which is generally hot, athletic bodies doing incredible things and, perhaps counter-intuitively, dessert. Sure, I also look for content on my profession (psychotherapy / social work), nerd humor, and progressive politics but when I get my scroll on it’s those top two categories that are the big thumb-stoppers for me.
Unlike what social media seems to think, I as a cisgender, middle-aged, queer/bisexual woman have a ton more in common with my gay/queer, cisgender, middle-aged male friends in terms of the presumption that sex is still front and center just like in their salad days; just like in my salad days. This doesn’t mean that I haven’t experienced hot flashes or brain fog (big time!). But I’ve been lucky to hold on to the inner teenaged boy that’s been with me my entire life. At least for now.
It’s true of course that aging brings physical and mental changes that can be confusing and scary to navigate, especially if you’re the one in the flesh suit and the suit is beginning to rip, sag, break, and expand and you still have a very clear memory of when your salad was crisp and flesh (typo but it stays).
It’s also true that men go through their own changes as they age, though no one ever really talks about it and when they do it seems to be solely focused on erectile dysfunction and the terror that the idea of having a prostate exam engenders. Men’s aging process seems to be easily fixed with “a little blue pill.” We all know that’s not really true but that’s how it’s advertised. I don’t know any men whose social media algorithm is loaded with messaging warning them about how sad, unattractive, and smelly they’ll become if they don’t pull their act together with $1000 creams made from placenta.
I guess what I’m trying to say (if I’m saying anything at all) is that we each have our own experience of the puzzle of aging. The pieces arrange themselves differently. So for every person who might have a “classic” presentation of one of the stages of aging, there’s someone else who is having a completely different experience. Mercifully we have arrived at a time and place when it’s accepted that people think and process information differently. I love the word neurodivergence because it gives a name to the gorgeous fact that we are not machines. All brains are not wired the same (THANK GOD/GODDESS/SPIRIT/FILL IN YOUR PREFERRED HIGHER POWER IF YOU THINK THERE IS ONE).
So how about a new word for the lexicon: agedivergence. And if we’re not ready for that, maybe we can start by looking at people the way we look at fine art. There’s so much beauty, so much energy, in the places we avoid or overlook because we’ve been conditioned to “look” without actually “seeing.” And anyway, we give too much weight to sight—and to the narratives we’ve been fed about “how things are supposed to be.” There is no one way. The greatest among us have known this long before time was something we measured with our eyes on a clock.
"Time, he flexes like a whore
Falls wanking to the floor
His trick is you and me, boy ..."
Veracious writing, JW. Well played. And yes - one can confirm that Der Algorithmus reliably serves its daily ration of blue-pill propaganda to men of a “certain vintage.” Honestly, at this point my feed looks like a pharmaceutical brochure. Joyless stuff. Apparently Hugh Hefner treated Viagra the way other fellas treat multivitamins - casually, enthusiastically, and often with breakfast. He dubbed it “the best legal recreational drug on the market,” which is quite something from a man who spent most of his adult life looking like a mahogany sideboard in silk PJ's. “If one doesn’t have a clue they’re going to be having sex within the next hour,” he mused, “one wonders what’s going on in their life.” Hmmm. Laundry, misplaced glasses, have I taken the bins out? Celebrating his 72nd birthday with his first pill, The Hefmeister bragged about 'dating' (cough) six women at once and taking the stuff like breath mints. “It gives you an erection you had as a teenager,” he said - which frankly sounds exhausting. At my crime of life, anything reminiscent of my teenage years is something I’d rather not relive, except perhaps the haircuts. Hefner was always ready to rumble. Meanwhile in the households of mere mortal breeders, things are I suspect … different. He’s ready to rumble - she’s ready to nod off with a chamomile tea. The only thing standing to attention is the dog at the foot of the bed. I've always argued it is best - for all involved - to make a cup of tea and lower expectations. So less Hugh Hef and more Thomas H JW.
By hearts grown cold to me,
Could lonely wait my endless rest
With equanimity.
But Time, to make me grieve;
Part steals, lets part abide;
And shakes this fragile frame at eve
With throbbings of noontide.
Throbbings of noontide. Hardy is out of copyright so a title for your first long player me thinks?
"Dude".
This is the best kind of writing- bold, ballsy, honest and FUNNY.