I rather love the expression ‘crow’s feet’. Which is not the same thing as loving my own, emerging crow’s feet – although I am trying.
What I love about the phrase is how precise it is; how universally understood. We understand not only that ‘crow’s feet’ means wrinkles in the skin, but wrinkles specifically in the skin next to the outer corner of the eye.
Which is amazing, really, when you think of the many things in this life that want for a satisfactory label.
I wonder if the term’s staying power is because it’s such an apt image. Once you hear it, you don’t need anyone to explain it to you.
Because those tri-pronged creases really do look like little corvid footprints stamped into the skin. As though age were a bird that returns to your face, night after night, determinedly deepening its imprint a little more, slowly but surely.
A different sort of winged eyeliner. Corvus woz here. The time-bird.
I don’t know if I’ve just passed some invisible age line, but, lately, I feel as though I’m being reminded by the internet – its adverts and suggested posts – with increasing alacrity of all the ‘flaws’ that come with age; all the hyper-specific ways a female body can become less acceptable.
Perhaps I’m just more attuned to it. Perhaps it’s because, for the first time, at 37, I’m starting to notice articles by women my age (and sometimes younger) describing their Botox regimens. Perhaps it’s because I can’t help but click when other writers reflect on their grey hairs and fear of ageing – or a decision not to inject anything into their face.
Perhaps this is the answer the internet thinks I want: ways to tackle not just my crow’s feet, but my ‘number 11s’, my double chin, the ‘chicken skin’ on the backs of my arms.
Is the fat on my stomach ‘menopause belly’, ‘wine belly’ or ‘gluten belly’? The internet really wants to help me with that one.
That women are encouraged to worry about their appearance and getting older is hardly news. But what strikes me now, more than ever, is the specificity of the language we have to describe our appearance.
Skinny fat. Fupa. Bingo wings. Cat’s-bum mouth. Cankles. Cellulite. Hip dips. Saddle bags.
It just goes on and on. Every visible part has its label; a good version and a bad version. An ever-evolving, constantly revised alternative anatomy we are all schooled in.
Which is hilarious – in a bleak sort of way – when you remember that our actual anatomy has a history of being forgotten; written out of medical textbooks. So much so that in 2024 scientists are still noting, with some surprise, parts of the ovary that they didn’t recognise. (A part that could have implications for the timing of ovulation and menopause. But no biggie).
Or when you think how one single word – ‘miscarriage’ – is made to encompass such a breadth and depth of physical experiences so as almost to render the term close to meaningless.
When you tell someone you had a miscarriage, what does it make them think? What are they imagining? How close is it to what actually happened to your body?
It’s a question. As turns of phrase go, it’s got nothing on crow’s feet.
Imprecise language has consequences. For want of better words, I often use ‘pregnancy loss’, ‘baby loss’ and ‘reproductive loss’, as functional, encompassing terms. But I sometimes resent their implications. As I write in Life, Almost:
‘I didn’t “lose” my baby. I did not absent-mindedly forget to keep being pregnant. I did not misplace it or leave it behind somewhere. I was not careless. It died. The small lifeform inside me stopped living.’
The more the internet tries to hold a mirror up to my ageing face, the more I notice the gap, too, between the technical demands of the language of beauty and anti-ageing and the often simplified language in health information aimed at women.
I think of the words that are often missing or dumbed down.
Follicular phase. Luteal phase. Progesterone versus progestogens. Corpus luteum. Yolk sac. Gestational sac. Foetal pole.
Are any of those harder, really, to understand than other terms and phrases we’re bombarded with in other contexts. Buccal fat. Non-comedogenic. Hyaluronic acid versus azelaic acid. Whey protein or collagen? Collagen or Profilho?
It’s interesting what we’re expected to understand; what counts as common knowledge.
Words build our reality. We should pay attention to the things we’re given words for – and the things we are not.
Other posts you may have missed…
This week’s discussion thread on pregnancy after loss. (For paying subscribers).
‘Sharenting’ after miscarriage and infertility – once you have a living child, how much do you post about them?
Children in mind, not children in law. A post about Alambama’s ‘extrauterine children’, legal personhood, and the need for expansive, inclusive pro-choice politics. Now more than ever.
"Words build our reality." YES!
Words to savour, as always ❤️