What´s age got to do with it?

On Strawberries and And Dead Husbands.

A couple of years ago, I got a text from my daughter asking:

How do you freeze strawberries?

We are not a family that freezes strawberries, I answered, a bit baffled, because I thought she knew this.

(Note: All proper Finns freeze strawberries in July. Our nation firmly believes that we have the best strawberries in the world and because their season is so short, we must freeze as much as we can while they’re available. It is a national obligation.)

But I want to be a person who has home-frozen strawberries in the freezer, she answered.

What she meant was:

I want to be a good citizen—someone who remembers to do things at the right time, when one still can, not afterwards, when it’s too late.

She wanted to belong to that group, the group of good citizens.

The cage of age

When my dad died, one of the first things my mom, who was 66 at the time, said was:

I am now like the rest of the sad husbandless women.

My mom didn’t want to belong to that group.

She wanted to belong to a group of women with husbands who were alive.

At 65, I don’t know what group I belong to but I do know what group I do not want to belong to.

When my maternal grandmother was my age, she used to sit on a rocking chair in her bathrobe after the Saturday sauna, reading a hymn book. She fit the image of an old person perfectly. Her long, thin hair was braided into a bun with plastic hairpins. She always wore a plaid apron and flannel slippers. She never wore makeup.

She was old the entire time I knew her—25 years. She died when she was 80, and I was 21.

When I look at older people, I am often overcome with a sense of dread. I’m not proud to admit this, but it’s true.

I don’t want to identify as old. I don’t want to belong to that group.

I don’t want to wear my hair like they do. I don’t want to dress the way they do. I don’t want to say the things they say.

I don’t want to become like the old people in Jacques Brel’s song Les Vieux, who doze in thyme-scented rooms, waiting for death.

But why should I?

And more importantly: why do I have these absurd fears?

Why do I think age is like a cage—a prison I must grow used to? Why must I wear my age like armour and accept all its burdens without question?

Why can’t I just be who I am and not care how others “do” their age?

Of course I can.

The armour is in my head. No one expects me to become like “the rest of them.” I can be myself until the end.

I can wear jeans and Converse for as long as I want—if that’s what feels right to me.

A friend of mine, a fashion designer, once said that as we age, we tend to wear the clothes we were comfortable wearing in middle age. That’s why older people often seem out of touch—they’re still dressing the way they did 30 years ago.

Also: older people probably aren’t as focused on their appearance as younger people are.

That makes sense. The older we get, the more we focus on what truly matters. Fashion might not be one of those things.

But it can be.

Nelson and Isabella

Most of my friends are either my age or 20 years younger. None of them are in their 80s. There’s a generation gap between me and the 80-somethings—but barely any gap at all between me and people in their 40s.

Or at least I don’t see any.

I find this odd.

It’s something I need to think about more, along with my fear of getting old—gerascophobia —which seems to be getting worse.

Which is also why I am writing these posts.

Do you feel the same? Are you as lost in this jungle of age roles as I am?

Do you suffer from gerascophobia?

What can we do about it?

One thing I do to make myself feel better is to focus on Nelson Mandela. At the age of 71, he walked out of prison and started a new career—as President of the very country that had imprisoned him for 27 years. He defied expectations in every way, even breaking the traditional dress code. Mandela became known (and sometimes frowned upon) for his vibrant, colourful shirts, which he wore instead of formal presidential suits.

Another person who inspires me is Isabella Rossellini (72). Her Instagram account is a joy. She shares snapshots of herself in rubber boots, tending to her chickens and geese, alongside glamorous photos from her work with Lancôme cosmetics.

Fun fact: Isabella was dropped by Lancôme at 40 for being “too old.” But at 63, the company invited her back—realizing that while their customers might aspire to look younger, they were ageing too. And that was perfectly fine.

Because it is.