“The contents of a woman’s handbag — there’s something terribly intimate about it because it’s hidden.”
— Justine Picardie, author of Coco Chanel: The Legend and the Life
Looking at this photograph, could you guess my age?
There are sunglasses, lipstick, a wallet, keys, a phone and the usual assortment of things I consider necessary for getting through the day. But there is nothing here that belongs particularly to a woman in her seventies—or her forties, for that matter. It is simply a collection of things I choose to carry because they are useful, familiar or, in some cases, because I simply like them.
The contents of a handbag may be intimate, but they don’t necessarily reveal the things we so readily use to define one another. They don’t tell you my age. They don’t tell you whether I am retired or still working. They don’t tell you whether I am someone’s mother or grandmother. Yet somehow, they still offer a small glimpse of the woman carrying them.
As we grow older, we—and those around us—make assumptions about who we are based simply on the number of years we have lived. We have inherited an image of what a woman of a certain age is supposed to look like, how she should dress, what she should do and, sometimes, even how she should behave. But those old definitions seem increasingly inadequate.
The women of my mother’s and grandmother’s generations had far fewer choices than we do today. Our lives are different. We remain active longer, travel, work or volunteer, use technology, start new projects, develop new interests and continue to care about how we present ourselves to the world. The definition of what it means to be seventy—or eighty, for that matter—keeps shifting.
I have reached a time in my life when I am no longer particularly interested in looking younger. I am interested in looking good. There is a difference.
I have always admired the French attitude toward aging, particularly the idea that a woman doesn’t become less interesting—or less stylish—simply because she grows older. There seems to be less emphasis on trying to recapture youth and more on becoming comfortable with the woman you have become.
That doesn’t mean I have any illusions about aging. I see the changes when I look in the mirror. Some I accept more graciously than others. Aging is part of my story, and pretending otherwise would be rather foolish. I simply don’t believe it has to become my defining characteristic.
I am still interested in the same things that have always interested me—and in quite a few things I’m still discovering. I still care about style, books, beautiful surroundings, good conversation and what is happening in the world. I am still curious. And perhaps curiosity, more than anything we can put in a jar or buy at a cosmetics counter, keeps us young.
So, yes, this is my handbag. These are the things I carry with me every day. There is nothing particularly young about them, and nothing particularly old. They belong to a woman going about her life. And perhaps that’s the point.
Peace be with you.
If you’re new here, welcome. I write about aging with grace, finding beauty in everyday life, and the quiet moments that remind us what matters most. I’m so glad you’ve stopped by.
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