We’ve lost friends and parents and found a little more of our ourselves. We’ve been dumped, disregarded, laid off, and underestimated made mistakes, taken chances failed miserably in some cases, even hit rock bottom. Many 35-year-old women, myself included, have been around the block, or even the whole neighborhood. And, as a bonus, I like my body and my bank account balance better now, too.Ī little life experience will do that for you. I’m more willing to speak my mind than ever, and I care significantly less than I did 10 years ago about what other people think. Today, at 35, I’m largely out of fucks to give, and, to borrow a phrase from Trump, as “nasty” as I want to be. Too experienced, for sure, to sell their souls to Oompa Loompa–color sugar daddies with penchants for pussy grabbing. Too experienced to constantly second-guess themselves and whether or not they deserve their compliments, their jobs, or their promotions.
Women at 35 are “too experienced.” Too experienced to see themselves as a man’s possession to be “checked out” on. After all, the very moment that he blurted out that Hillary Clinton was “ such a nasty woman” during the final debate, she was flexing her own political and life experience, going toe to toe with a man-terrupting bully.īut, upon further consideration, I think Trump is exactly right. Then there’s the Trumpian argument from the aforementioned Stern tape: According to the man who will lead this country’s mighty force of women and girls, 30 is the “perfect age” for a girlfriend, but 35-year-olds are damaged goods, thanks to that unwieldy overdose of “life experience.” My gut reaction was to take morbid offense to this chauvinist little nugget and argue that there’s no such thing as “too experienced.” Of course Trump would see living, learning, and presumably acquiring some wisdom along the way as a burn rather than a benefit in a woman, I thought. One adorable medical form even denoted me, in all caps, as “ELDERLY.” Janet Jackson, who just had her first child at 50, would very likely roll her eyes at this. Now that I’m expecting a baby (my last, I guess) in a few weeks, multiple doctors and one very scary genetic counselor have reminded me of my higher-risk “advanced maternal age” status. My (former) gynecologist advised me to have “all of my children” by 35. (See: “ 13 Actresses Over 35 That Are Still Killing It In Hollywood.” Isn’t it amazing that women in this demo still can?) Thirty-five is also the precise age when women are needled about their biological clocks. Instead, you belong to a new bracket-35 and over, which spans from 35 until, I’m pretty sure, death. You’re aged out of those plum “30 under 30” lists, because it just counts more if you launch the next Warby Parker or run a hot new Hulu show when you’re fresh out of college.
Thirty-five seems to be the age at which you’re officially no longer young. It’s not just Trump who is putting it out there. Saddled with life experience and a new pair of orthopedic Easy Spirit walking sneakers, I’m wondering, like Trump before me, what is it about 35? Why do women of this particular age seem to be sent the message that they’re overripe, undesirable, and somehow creeping into Miss Havisham territory? During those glory days, the prospect of his presidency was but a bad dream, and I was a spritely 34-still safely in the realm of what Trump would deem dateable! But that changes today as I (and Kate Middleton alike) turn 35 and reach Trump’s designated female expiration date. I made a mental note of Trump’s thoughts on women of 35-more “locker room” talk, I’m sure-when the story surfaced last fall. (You have to wonder how he’d feel now, however, if his son-in-law, Jared Kushner, “checked out” on his daughter and trusted adviser, Ivanka Trump, who turned 35 in October.) He wasn’t necessarily kidding: At the time of the Access Hollywood tape in 2005, when he bragged about aggressively hitting on O’Dell, his new wife, Melania, was 35.