Men mature but women just get old--June 7,2003

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Men mature but women just get old.

By Leong Ching.
976 words
7 June 2003
Straits Times
English
(c) 2003 Singapore Press Holdings Limited

Women look old when they hit 35, whereas men lose the callowness of youth and age gracefully


MARRIED LIFE

SOME time last month, the Significant Other crossed an invisible line and started to age gracefully.

Perhaps it was the white in his still-thick hair. Or the lines behind his ears, nearing his neck.

Around the same time, I started to grow old.

Perhaps it was the wrinkles around my eyes. Or the generous swathe on my hips.

During the nine months when I was expecting a baby, the extra cushion of fat and estrogen bought me some time.

Now, just when I can rejoice at the sight of my collarbones once again, I can also see the veins at the back of my hands - as the skin there becomes thinner, my bluish veins protrude.

I stare at them and think they look like my mother's. My knees are turning knobbly, like hers.

Women, I discover, look old when they hit 35, whether they put on middle-age spread or not. Take Maggie Cheung, for example. When she was younger, the media called her 'sylph-like' or 'slim'. Now, at 38, she is merely 'sinewy'.

On the other hand, Tony Leung Chiu Wai is 40 this year while Andy Lau is 41. Both are looking better than ever. Time takes away the callowness of their youth, and gives them a certain 'je ne sais quoi'.

'Yes, I think they look a bit Ah Kua,' said the Significant Other, when I tried to tell him 'I know not what' makes the two men look good, in what I thought was elegant French.

'I also know not what. Perhaps they go for facials, pluck their eyebrows, and you know,' he added vaguely.

I KNOW. I used to go for what are called 'personal care' services quite often - facials, scrubs and wraps. To the gym, to the dentist, to the pedicurist. But I soon got tired of the free and running critique. My teeth are chipped, my face is simultaneously too dry and too oily, and well, the sins of my body are too many to recount.

I still go to the dentist, of course (I am sensitive, not stupid) and I recently ventured boldly forward for a pedicure.

'Your nails are very broad,' said the pedicurist.

'Thank you,' I said, pleased at a compliment at last.

'Too broad,' she said.

'Oh dear. Can I do anything?'

'Nothing, you're stuck with them. I just have to use very light colours so you can't see the nail polish,' she said.

Why am I forking out $45 for polished nails that are not obvious? I didn't dare to ask because she looked so bereft at having to restrict herself to three colours, instead of the usual 97.

I don't mind that cashiers at supermarkets call me 'auntie'. I don't mind that my younger colleagues come to me for advice for marriage ('You would know, since you have been married so long'.)

I don't even mind when my sister offered to get me a larger monitor screen, in case age catches up with me.

What I do mind is how the Significant Other seems to be having all the good parts of growing middle-aged while I seem to be getting all the bad.

At a recent health screening by the National Kidney Foundation, he was told that he was 5kg overweight.

'Five kilos over, same as me!' I sniggered, as the scales tipped 76kg when he stood on it. At 5 feet 10, he did not look obviously fat but, well, if NKF said so....

At 50kg, I too was 5kg over my usual weight, but at least I had the excuse of having just had a baby.

'Let's see if we can both do something about it,' he said.

He started playing tennis with a neighbour. Just 20 minutes into the game, he stalked off because he was too rusty. I started swimming and running for 20 minutes, twice a week.

He ate nasi briyani for lunch, and wolfed down two bowls of rice for dinner. I nibbled at a sprig of parsley and a pot of yoghurt. I also pumped out four bottles of milk each day for our two-month-old baby. I figured that accounted for a few hundred calories.

After a month, the Significant Other weighed in at 72kg. I remained 50kg.

I hopped up and down the scale in disbelief. My two-year-old daughter, thinking it was a new game, shrieked with delight, pushed me off and started to do the same.

'Mummy is fat and hot!' she cried, echoing a remark which I made often during the last month of my pregnancy. Unfortunately, she was still right.

WE GO shopping a lot more now that there are two babies to care for instead of one. In the process, the Significant Other has cultivated a new sense of appreciation for an activity which he used to scorn.

Recently, we went to Level One at Far East Plaza for a quick bite.

'Let's look around,' he said. We made an incongruous pair, in our ironed cotton office wear. But he soon blended in.

Matrix-like shades, bright red shoes, and sleeveless T-shirts. Tight, bottom-hugging trousers; loose, baggy shirts and leather thongs for belts. He tried them all.

They made him look 34, and trendy. I too tried on some clothes. They make me look 34 and desperate. My hips stand in the way, my tummy is not taut, and alas, my butt does not ride as high.

Fortunately, I spotted a small shop selling baby wear. I managed to buy something which fits after all.