Like Fine Wine & Baddie Winkle
The first time I ever saw the word ‘baddie’ was a long, long time ago. It was in a 2014 Buzzfeed article about Helen Vanwinkle — an old lady whose internet persona is called Baddie Winkle. You can still find her on the gram using that handle, and she has an audience of millions.
I was fascinated, and even ended up writing a thread about her on Nairaland back then. (Yes, I had a serious Nairaland phase — and no, I’m not there anymore.)
Helen is a 95-year old who seems pretty confident with herself and the way she’s grown to look over the years. But let’s shift our focus for a while — this piece isn’t about her.
It’s about you.
And me.
It’s about the inevitability of what happens to the both of us, and the part we play in determining our disposition towards the inevitable.
[Something very random just occurred to me; right now as I type this. And I decided to slot it in because it’s my article, and who’s gonna stop me? Okay, here we go. I hate when people conflate ‘will’ and ‘would’. Too often, you use ‘would’ when you should simply say ‘will’. Why? Why? Why?]
Back to the matter, I think what spurred me to write this piece is how often I see jokes made at the expense of older people. Yeah. There’s a very finely crafted art form that I come across on Twitter everyday — jokes made at the expense of someone older, whereby the joke is simply that… this person is older. C’est finis. Like that’s the entire joke.
Now, make no mistake; I like these jokes. They’re hilarious as hell, and I crack them too. But while I only see these jokes via the lens of their hilarity, I fear that I may be in the minority. I’ve begun to realise that a lot of people actually think it’s a valid insult to point out that someone’s getting old; and that’s where the joke ends for me, because it leaves me genuinely flummoxed.
Flabbergasted. Shook. Befuddled.
Because — do you have an appointment to die before you reach their age? Do you truly assume that you’ll never reach the age in question? Is there a mental disconnect somewhere? Are you somehow above ageing, and would you kindly share your vial of the immortality potion with the rest of the world?
To be in your thirties is a blessing, I promise you. I say thirties because that’s when the ‘old’ tag usually starts to fly — that’s when you begin to hear “As old as you are?” when you mess up, and when kids no longer dare to refer to you without the Aunty prefix. That’s when most of society begins to be vocal about the various calendars they have decided to place you on, and that’s when big-boy responsibilities grab your neck with no recourse to the “But I’m just in my twenties!” response.
But how dope is it, really, to have hit the big 3–0?
For thirty years, you’ve walked this Earth. Maybe even touched lives. Been the reason that someone had a smile on their face. Made people’s burdens lighter in your own way. Solved big, fat problems. Sparked joy with your words. Been a shoulder to cry on. Shared the sweet gospel of Christ to an aching soul. Brought a little bit of colour to someone’s world. Made mistakes and fixed them like kintsugi. Paid someone’s way for something important. Used your art to soothe someone’s grief. Taught people critical skills. Had life-changing conversations and experiences that you can barely even remember, but which changed the course of someone’s life.
Every day counts, and so does every year — an incredible fixture of time which only you could have lived the way you lived it.
It’s a big deal, and I believe that we should be proud of growing older. It should be considered a badge of honour; especially when you’ve racked up achievements you personally can be proud of. Don’t you agree?
I’m twenty-four now, and I look forward to being thirty someday. And forty. And then fifty. Regardless of the things that’ll change about me, I’ll always be proud of having lived every single day of my life. At least I hope so, because you can never really tell what life will do to a person’s perspective. But I truly do not want to become someone who hides my age or lies about it — someone who bears shame for the singular fact that the clock has continued to tick as it should. It’s so much easier to be proud of your age as a youngin, but I really hope I stay true to this. Let’s see. Remind me about this piece when I’m forty.
And here’s another concern — every once in a while, I see someone express the wistful sadness of watching your parents grow old. When I hear this, I’m often tempted to remind the speaker that the only alternative is this — watching them die young. And no one wants this; so let me offer a different perspective. This particular sadness easily finds a way to creep in, but perhaps it’d be more manageable if you thought of it this way?
Imagine this: your mother turning seventy. It’s a landmark, baby. She’s given seventy years of her life to her dreams. Her family. Her devotion unto God. Her friendships. Her shops, her customers. The fashion she likes, the sort of books she loves to read. The species of fish she prefers to buy in the market, the kind of fabric she’s excited to pay asoebi money for. Her greying wig-and-gown for court. Her relationship with the other ladies in the church’s Zumuntan Mata group. Her strict poker face as she closes deals she’s worked hard for.
Mummy has lived a big life, and continues to live a life worth living — and you get to share in that life. Isn’t that beautiful?
Every time you go home to visit, you have a priceless chance to make more memories. To drink in the sound of her silvery laughter; and to bask in the warmth of that pride you feel when she stares at you. So enjoy it. Don’t spend the limited time letting negative nostalgia colour the experience for you.
Mother will die someday, and so will you. We will grow old, no matter how much retinol we slather on our faces. Very old, and sunscreen will be rendered powerless against the sheer might of what gravity can do to sagging skin. The multivitamins will do little to stop nature’s processes, and the tips in the How To Beat Ageing books will cease to work. THIS is life, and this is mortality. For those of us who’ll be here, we’ll all grow unsteady on our feet; with beautifully wrinkled skin, dark eyes and spindly legs. We go old die. Literally. Hehe.
But we can enjoy the ride — and even when we get there, we can be like Baddie Winkle. Growing older on the outside, but forever blooming and bright on the inside.
Instead of being terrified of life’s most natural process, let’s try that.
Bisous!
