Money is the Best Moisturizer
Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit special is the straight man’s equivalent of Vogue magazine because Tyra Banks looks much better in a barely-there bikini than Tom Brady. When I was younger I used to buy Men’s Health, and flipping through it, you kind of get the idea of their target audience: young men who take good care of their mind and body, sprinkled with a bit of self-help writing and healthy replacements for sugar and carbs.
Two words that could trigger a seizure for readers that take their advice too seriously. It’s stressful to be a guy in the prime of his youth, especially if you’re fooling yourself you’re still in your prime when you hit 40.
It’s difficult to grow up as it is and the last thing young men need is imposing unattainable beauty standards on them. Most of you know someone who’d criticize your choice of food due to their own obsession with health: dude, do you have any idea just how many carbs are in that thing on your plate?
You don’t even need a gym, these people drain will all your mental calories. I used to think cheat day is that one day in your relationship when you’re allowed to fool around with other people. Until I met a few gym rats who explained it to me. Did I mention they’re single?
Martha Stewart quite literally got into the headlines with her cover photo in Sports Illustrated, dressed in a swimsuit that stirred a lot of feedback, either praising it as a bold counterargument to ageism or reading a feminist narrative into the editorial in which she ditched the apron for sexy lingerie that we usually associate with young women instead of senior citizens. You can blame it on stereotypes, but octagenarians aren’t the first thing that comes to your mind when you imagine bikinis.
Time is a quicksand that’s going to sink all of our ships sooner or later so better not obsess about it. However that’s exactly what we do and her flirty exercise with the camera doubles down on it. What some interpret as a powerful statement about beauty at any age is nothing more than product placement for her namesake brand. And the proof that all the identity labels don’t amount to much without the support of high status, otherwise known as classism. The difference between a lifestyle and life is that the former implies the luxury of choice while the latter is a given.
Some refuse to see it, some can’t come to terms with it, but it’s painfully simple. All our differences come down to economy. If your wallet is as thin as Kate Moss in her heroin chic glory days, the color you associate with on the rainbow spectrum is irrelevant. That’s why the new cover girl of Sports Illustrated isn’t a symbol of feminism but privilege that defies limits her fellow octagenarians have to deal with. Just like it’s a good idea to give up on a daily diet of CNN and the endless newsfeed about climate change, wars and related anxieties, it might be smart to give up on unattainable lifestyles and beauty standards pushed by Vogue or Architectural Digest as aspirational.
But let’s not make this a yet another pseudo-activist discussion on the trappings of liberal capitalism. That’s merely fish bait for young intellectuals who can’t afford Stewart’s kitchen mats. Probably because their academic paycheck reduced their kitchens to a microwave oven, a second-hand rice cooker and a coffee maker. I have a Jamie Oliver cookbook, but let’s be honest here. I’d sooner give up on cheesecake than bother about making one from scratch. More often than not, your bookshelf is about projection. Who you’d like to be instead of who you are.
Things always sound much better than they really are. When someone talks about upcycling, you admire them for making the right choice and refusing to contribute to the culture of consumerism where tons of money are wasted instead of second-hand products that are romantically dubbed “pre-loved”.
That is, until you see some people doing the upcyling around town: they’re dirt-ass poor, in a desperate need of a hairdresser or just a bottle of shampoo. You’re much more likely to find empty cans of beer in their organic cotton tote than a tube of cruelty-free peeling and kale chips. I’m not trying to be condescending or ironic, it’s called reality check.
I’ve been to second-hand shops and most of them look like a street market in India: piles of dresses, discounted shirts and buckets of abandoned costume jewelry: a kennel of dead trends and not a piece of kibble in sight. Influencers brainwashed you into an idea of these places like a vintage wonderland.
If you don’t do your shopping there, you’re chastised for being a picky princess. Well, this picky princess doesn’t mind wearing a used bathrobe. Provided it’s in the bathroom of a chic hotel room. I’m sure Martha would sympathise. Occasionally I steal pre-loved velvet slippers at chic digs along with body lotion and shampoo. But there’s tons more where those came from anyway. It’s called redistribution of style for a reason.
I’ve got people asking me about vacation plans. If you haven’t got big criteria but you’ve got kids in need of entertainment, most of the nearest places on the Adriatic coast will be just fine. There’s a nice beach, a cafe and a supermarket. However if you’re looking for something more than afternoonlife you need to drive a bit further, because nightlife is a bit of a stretch for those dainty little places with a good view. People you’ll see here are as far away from a Sports Illustrated cover story as can be: the men do wear speedos, but none have matching abs and they don’t give a damn. This is the proverbial average guy, nice to meet you and fuck you too.
No matter the brand of your sunblock, the sun is still for free. The strategy of the beauty industry is incredible. My skin is on the oily side so I usually insist on good quality skincare. I went to the new shop which sells those brands you’ll hardly see at drugstores due to their pricetags. The clerk was full of useful information and scanned my skin with a little gadget, after which she pulled out a little bottle which was on the other end of my affordability spectrum. Fortunately, it’s all about the ingredients and the same can be found in places that don’t look like the skincare equivalent of an Apple Store.
One thing is for sure: you’ll find speedos in my suitcase, but no Martha Stewart. She’s one more in the long sequence of women preaching female equality and empowerment who just happen to be very wealthy, white or both at the same time. I’m sorry, I don’t buy that.
Just like I won’t spend 150 Euros on a moisturizer merely because it’s the perfect match for my skintype. If there’s one thing that changes with age, it’s your perception of money and budgeting. I highly doubt these ladies earned their fortune with motivational speaking, unless it was at Wall Street, like Hillary Clinton.
Maybe some will accuse me of ageism and misogyny after my little rant. But you’re barking at the wrong tree here. No amount of filters and make-up can filter you back into your thirties and there’s nothing wrong about looking your age.
The fact that Stewart felt compelled to do this might be either because we created a culture where successful women need to look good to stay relevant or because growing old is more difficult in the public eye. All your accompanying insecurities come up much more visibly compared to average people. Unlike them, turning into a wrinkled whoopee cushion is indeed a bit less stressful for Stewart because her whoopees are at least stuffed with cash. In precarious times, it’s a fair equation.
There’s enough hair on my head for a good wig. If you know anyone with a receding hairline, I’d be a good match due to my receding savings account. Hit me up and we’re in business. For better or worse, mine is always a hairy situation. And damn it, it looks hot, at least until it hits my hairdresser’s floor. There’s no trust fund in my name but I have the looks. America is the living proof that the former can hardly make up for a lack of the latter. Poetic justice? I really don’t care enough for it to know.
