by Giuseppina Pieragostini*
Sixty is like the blow of a stone. A sort of lapidation with sixty big stones which go straight to the target. In case you’re a lucky woman, a sharp blow with no warning, while you’re thinking that everything is still to happen, love too, maybe. But, I mean, did you ever take a look at yourself?
Above all, you walk as if you don’t have anything interesting left between your legs; then your forms, they stick with stubbornness to the most inappropriate areas of your body, so you’ll find those hips gone up to the armpits, to say nothing of the knees, which look more and more like stone-posts, your arms enlarged in the wrong part and your cheeks which thrive at their own convenience.
And it wouldn’t be over, but phenomenology has limits, too.
Pushing and clawing, present women in their fifties, gained a place, if not amorous, a bit winky al least, in the collective imagination and gave rise to an army of new Amazons in their shining armour, which look others right in the face.
You spent that period at a steady pace, showing off your mottled mop as if you got back to being that prepuberal girl with her head full of dreams; while Portia, again and again, my lifetime’s best enemy, never got off her spike heels and was changing, each three days, the shape and colour of her hair.
Approaching the end of the decade, a certain anxiety creeps in; if the colonization of the fifties has moved farther nobody’s land’s boundaries, that feeling keeps spreading itself, unknown and relentless and, unless you luckily die earlier, you must deal with it.
It’s useless to hang on to the last bits of age, dig in your heels on the edge of the abyss; once lost their arrogance, women get into the sixties dazed and disbelieving. Just an instant, and age, which was a grace to hide or show depending on the game, becomes an implacable master.