A few years ago, I used to be an amateur actress. I even took part in a huge production. The day we opened, we did it in front of 500 people. I knew my lines, wore the heavy 18th century dress, petticoat and all, and walked out on stage. Leading the rest of the cast, I attempted to close a parasol I carried. Not only did I fail at closing it, I sent the damn thing flying. It slipped right out of my hands, launching into the air and falling right at the edge of the stage. I heard the gasps and the giggles, and my heart sank. Panicking and breaking a sweat, all I could do was pick up my parasol and say my lines. The show went on.
People may have laughed at me, they may have thought I screwed up my performance, who knows. I didn’t have the world’s media watching me, or millions of people tuning in to an online stream. Twitter didn’t exist back then, and I wasn’t a 56-year-old professional performer. I wasn’t Madonna, falling at the Brits.
Last night Madonna fell from a raised part of her stage, to the floor a metre down, while almost choking on an Armani cape that refused to unhook. It was not a light tumble. The entire world gasped, a lot of us cringed, and due to today’s technology, we all got to see Madonna’s look of horror. Appearing to be sore, she missed a couple of her lines but went on with her performance, singing live and dancing in frightfully high heels.
The first thing I thought after her fall was the sheer amount of negative remarks it was going to generate. Not negative as in “your performance was not the best” or “what a disappointment”. The ones that troubled me were those that, for the last years, talk about a 56-year-old in need of a retirement plan. The headlines that call Madge an oldie that should cover up or behave appropriately. The comments on social media that express disgust or wonder about her children’s wellbeing whenever she choses to “not act her age”.
A number suddenly becomes such an important matter, warranting discussion and heavy criticism if it dares go over 50. Apparently once you reach that amount, you’re done.
I wonder about those who cringe at Madonna flashing her bum, or talking about sex… are they grown up? Are they ignorant teenagers who think it’s cool to live fast and die young? Are they women over 50 who abandoned their own dreams and can’t stand to see others doing it differently? Is it men who are throwing the nasty remarks? Being over 50 and being Madonna…how is that a bad thing? Why does it bother some so much?
When I was fifteen, a few years before my parasol fiasco, I lost one of my closest friends. She died of cancer. She never got to experience what turning 18 meant, she never grew up to reach 40 married or unmarried, who cares. She never made it pass 15.
Last year, gorgeous Averi, a wonderful girl I met through my sister, died at age 17. Cancer too.
Reaching 50 is no easy task. The people that turn that age and continue to celebrate birthdays, have earned their right to be on this planet through survival, hard work and resisting the rubbish life throws at them.
One of the ladies I admire the most, my aunt and best friend S., she’s around Madonna’s age and like the blonde pop star, still wears lipstick, still is a hell of a sexy kitten channeling Susan Sarandon. Should she dress differently?
C, another lady in my inner circle, separated from her husband when she was around Madonna’s age. She lives alone by the Mediterranean sea. She goes to parties, she does Yoga and now has re-discovered her singing voice, performing stunning solos to numerous audiences. Should she be dressing in black, covering her ankles? Is she not entitled to fall in love again?
I’m certainly not acting my age. I’m not 25 anymore – I keep telling everyone I’m 28, you can guess whether that is true or not. I certainly don’t behave the accepted “standard” way. I’m not married, I don’t have children, I still rent, and I have no plans of doing what is expected of me. I never have. I’ve been judged, crucified, told I’m unbalanced for not “settling down”. I never will. My gender, the way I wear my hair, my job, and certainly my age, do not define me or my life.
Age is a blessing, a massive gift. Women over 50 are not going to shrivel up and die. Give up the hate, Daily Mail and other tabloids, trolls and ageist idiots.
Madonna got up, she sang her lines, she nailed her performance. Even non-fans are praising the levels of professionalism of the biggest icon in music. Unlike many of her peers, she’s still here.
Life is to be celebrated, end of. If all you throw at the universe is your negativity and nasty thoughts don’t be ofended when I ignore the hell out of you, and dream to grow “old” like Madonna.
Pictures: BRITS, Fashion Limbo
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