Happy birthday, Dorian Gray!
On getting older
Buon compleanno, Dorian Gray! – leggi questo articolo in italiano
Back in the days of being a 20 years old, I used to sign my photographs as 'Dorian Gray!'.
On the same tune of the 'shavings of things' poem, I was indeed obsessed with time passing too fast and me as a result getting old, boring and above all things irrelevant. When I was 16 I wrote this poem:
one day i run away
i get old
all of a sudden
i forget
i buy a laptop bag
and say
''that's lovely.
i'll get a basket of strawberries.
fixed term, off days.''
At the time, the idea of becoming that thing petrified me. When I turned 25, I thought I was over. I was not successful by any standard, I turned out not to be an enfant prodige after all and the little aesthetic beauty granted by my youth was just forever gone.
I was particularly angry at my grey hair. Whenever I found one, I would pull it out merciless. In a completely irrational train of thoughts, a grey hair seemed to me like a virus to be uprooted from the system as soon as possible in order to avoid contagion. At the same time, I constantly reminded myself of the old Sicilian adage that if you pull out one grey hair, another four will pop out very soon. I was daunted by this insoluble dilemma: resign to idleness to avoid bringing an atavic curse on myself and accepting looking older today not to look even older tomorrow or pull out my single grey hair to look less old today at the risk of having to need to eventually pull out my entire mane for the rule of exponential growth? In a way, a Dorian Gray portrait progressively balding in the attic. I eventually stopped worrying and loved1 to spend hundreds of pounds yearly to dye my hair, in order to keep Dorian Gray from both ageing and balding (two birds with hundreds of stones… pardon, pounds!). This is exactly the kind of heart-warming, consumerism-inducing, body positive story we love to hear in late capitalism. I accept and love my body, and that's why I have been obsessively dyeing my hair for the past 8 years–because I am worth it!!
Back then, I hadn't watched a single minute of red pill content on YouTube, but I somehow had fully internalised their classic “wall” theory. "The wall" is approximately set at 25 years old, which is the age when a woman is no longer at her peak fertility (as she has now run out of her best eggs) and as a consequence she is no longer at her peak attractiveness. It surely sounds insane, but that's just because it's spelled out clearly in this no-frills manner. In reality, “the wall” is not a borderline conspiracy of incels, it's just everywhere. We are all obsessed with looking young, but for women it becomes a moral imperative. Freezing eggs and IVF are, in a way, a simulation of everlasting fertility.
It was such a persuasive the narrative for me as a young adult. Fast-forward to ten years later, and I am living my best life. I wish I could go back in time and give this little talk to little 15 years old Valeria (even here it's two birds with one stone. You inform the 15 years old bird, that will in turn inform the 25 years old bird –problem solved.)
“You know those truck drivers shouting compliments at you? They are just paedophiles. And although there is still a very big chance they'll keep shouting at you in 20 years time, that is not necessarily a good thing. Besides, I am afraid to inform you that you absolutely do not look older for your age–you are wearing a plastic necklace found in the July issue of the Barbie magazine and have a glued crystal sticker on your right nostril to pretend it's a nose piercing. You are definitely giving spice up your life sailor moon combo, and it's perfectly fine. Ah, one more thing: stop putting your feet on the bus seats, you slob. Also, please invest all your money in the stock market. OK, I have to go now. We have just created a time paradox and the entire universe is about to get sucked into a black hole. Bye"
dr strangelove, 1964