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Welcome to Ethels Tell All, where the writers behind The Ethel newsletter share their personal stories related to the joys and challenges of aging. Come back each Wednesday for the latest piece, exclusively on AARP Members Edition.
I just turned 70, and I want to do a nude photoshoot. And I want my 101-year-old mother to join me.
It started the other day when I stepped out of the shower, wet and naked, and caught my reflection in the mirror. I scanned my body. Nothing had been altered, tweaked or repaired — on the outside, that is. My surgeries had been internal, leaving a few scars, some more visible than others. But overall, my skin still had some spunk and vibrancy. My breasts weren’t bad, and my butt could be perkier. My stomach, however, has taken on a life of its own, expanding steadily over the past 20 years despite my half-hearted sit-up attempts, which have done absolutely nothing to tame it.
Living in a society where youth is worshipped, I stood boldly in front of that mirror, embracing every line I had earned. That’s it, I thought. I’m going to do a nude photoshoot. I could see it already — black and white, high contrast, film noir lighting, shadows falling just right. From the belly up, my arms crossed, fingers spread wide covering my breasts, exposing just the skin in between. The caption: “The New 70.”
It's been 20 years since I bared my flesh publicly. When I turned 50, I was in an O Magazine feature about ill-fitting bras. There were five of us, women of different ethnicities, colors and ages. I was the oldest. We were photographed in our worst bras — mine was an old lace one I had bought in Paris years ago — then in a properly fitted one, with a fan blowing our hair for added glamour. The magazine landed in doctor’s waiting rooms for months, and soon my uncle called me. “You didn’t have to do that,” he muttered as if I’d posed for Screw or Playboy. My niece, on the other hand, proudly showed her friends. “This is my aunt!” she exclaimed, pointing to my picture.
The truth was, by the time O Magazine called, I was already getting attention. My first personal documentary, A Dog’s Life: A Dogamentary, had premiered on HBO, and people kept telling me how photogenic and entertaining I was. “Get an agent,” they’d say. No one knew my childhood dream had been to be a movie star — until my mother crushed it early on. Not that I ever let her stop me from pursuing what I wanted. But I had buried that dream myself after working as a young television commercial producer, watching actors get treated horribly.
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