Does It Feel Right?

Hi {{first_name|friend}},

Have you ever visited Threads, the Twitter-like social platform integrated with Instagram and Facebook?

We have — both on purpose and by accident — and our experiences there lead us to conclude that Threads is where middle-aged women congregate, and where drama about middle-aged women goes viral. We first noticed this during the multi-week Threads freakout over Lindy West’s memoir, Adult Braces, which to be fair also trended a bit on Twitter (the combo of West’s fat-positivity, feminism, and polyamorous marriage was like catnip to those gargoyles).

More recently, actress and attempted comedienne Jenny Mollen was thrust into Threads’ spotlight thanks to a strange Substack essay she wrote about her sons. This week, the focus was on Brandy’s appearance during a visit to her hometown of McComb, Mississippi. We could go on, but frankly this has all been humiliating enough.

“Users,” as the New York Times explains, “gravitate to specific communities on the platform, rather than a feed of news, to discuss television episodes, game recaps, celebrity gossip and current events. Among the most popular topics are K-pop, the W.N.B.A., dating, dramedy books and television shows like Heated Rivalry.” Draw your own inferences.

Meta shared last month that Threads passed an important benchmark: It has 500 million monthly users, putting it on par with Twitter aka “X” in terms of popularity. Despite this success, it seems like like Mark “masculinity” Zuckerberg could care less about Threads, as his attention remains zeroed in on AI and his new idea to get in on a gambling gold rush via a Meta predictions app like Kalshi or Polymarket.

Bye,
Your friends at Gloria

In the Met’s current Costume Institute exhibition, Costume Art, the museum pairs works from its permanent collection with clothing as commentary on the dressed human form. Within the new Condé M. Nast Galleries, the show is subdivided by body types as social construct: the naked and nude body; the classical body of Greco-Roman antiquity; the abstract body (enter the age of hoops and corsets); the corpulent, the disabled, and the mortal body, etc. 

On a recent visit, I passed a “pubikini” installed above a nude Egyptian statuette, a George Seurat Seine scene next to a Victorian bustle, and a fringed dress adorned with viscera and juxtaposed with a medical etching. In a rear gallery, on an aisle dedicated to the aging body, George Luk’s “The Old Duchess” hung next to a mannequin wearing a taffeta skirt and a sweater in cream and black with the word HAG written in all caps across the chest. I stood in front of the ensemble, designed by Batsheva Hay, and looked into a polished steel mirror placed on the mannequin’s face. In my reflection, I saw the indomitable spirit of the hag. I had seen her before. 

There’s a picture of me from 2010. I’m 27 and wearing a form-hugging bridesmaid dress in midnight blue. Mid dance move, with a Heineken in hand, my head is slung back in reverie. You can see the outline of my quads. I’ve joked for a long time that the photo captured the very moment my physical body peaked and that I’ve been in slow decline ever since. 

In the intervening years, I have herniated two discs and started growing sprigs of white hair. Spider veins web my upper thighs. My mid-section has softened. I take maintenance medications for high blood pressure and vaginal dryness, and I have received the most insulting of diagnoses: a fatty umbilical hernia. 

But something else happened too. I developed a confident, somewhat kooky style heavy on color and billowing silhouettes; vintage statement pieces; and housedresses in lieu of athleisure. If I could not be hot — because what effort that would take — I would build a wardrobe that projected experience, taste, and joy. Hag!

 I hear you. Wasn’t it enough to reclaim bitch? Must we also tether ourselves to this sordid word and the bitter indignities of old age? Yes, I think we must. 

Ancient hags of Gaelic and Celtic mythology were fearsome Earth goddesses who controlled the seasons, had their own cults, and could use their powers for good or evil. The arrival of Christianity diminished the influence of these wrinkled, weathered, and divine hags, and by the 11th century, hag was synonymous with witchcraft and devilry. The patriarchy kept diluting the word until it mostly meant ugly and old, but the hag never fully lost her power. 

It’s time to summon it, ladies, especially in this moment of ageist beauty standards, a relentless push for self optimization, and a renewed obsession with thinness. 

To be a hag is to opt out of those anxieties — to be wizened and unruly and demonstrate vitality despite decay. Hags don’t chase trends. They’re not victims of the algorithm, nor do they worship the false god of youth. 

To be clear, hags can be vain. I lift weights. I dab a ferulic acid serum onto my face every morning. I wear makeup. I keratin my bob into straight submission. But I also know there’s no evading perimenopause (#nightsweats) nor erasing those elusive extra five pounds. Hag, as an idea, is helping me navigate a life and body in transition. 

I’m that other kind of hag too, a woman surrounded by gay men. I suspect that may have eased my transition into middle-aged hagdom and why I’ve never bristled at the word. When your male friends encourage caftan purchases and send group texts about your heiress vibes (more Princess Margaret, less Paris Hilton), you grow accustomed to platonic validation. (Thanks, boys!)

Hag is my armor. It’s how I choose to present myself — command presence — in a world conditioned to discount and ignore older women. Clothes are part of that. I wear outfits that make me feel great and share some of my interiority. I stock my closet with confrontation, comfy, and conversation pieces: a gold brocade kimono woven with moody black storm clouds, a 1970s silk roman tunic, a cut-off T-shirt featuring a mayonnaise jar that I wear to the gym instead of matching Alo.

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TO WATCH Today’s an exciting day for fans of Wet Hot American Summer, as it marks the theatrical release of David Wain’s latest silly movie. Gail Daughtry and the Celebrity Sex Pass is about a women trying to sleep with Jon Hamm, and features a lot of familiar faces from the WHAS universe. Meanwhile, on HBO, there’s a new and very long documentary about Burning Man that sounds so-so (per The Hollywood Reporter’s review), but is probably of interest to people who have gone or want to go.

TO TRY If you're doing your nails at home, or thinking about starting, Dazzle Dry makes the process surprisingly easy. It dries in just five minutes (really!), lasts up to two weeks without chipping, and has a non-toxic, cruelty-free, vegan formula. We like the new Mini Mirage Kit if you want to try a few shades, while the Mini Starter Kit has everything you need to get started. Shop it all here. #partner

TO LISTEN Jack White has a new album out today, and it’s got that visceral, hard stomping sound that made The White Stripes blow up more than 20 years ago. It’s great.

TO ZONE OUT Here’s a computer game that you cannot lose. All you gotta do is split the firewood. And then another log is added. Meditative.

The slow progress of making IUD insertions less painful. • “Clinics are seeing more patients over 45 trying to get pregnant. It’s not as easy as celebrities make it look.” • A Britney Spears biopic is in the works. • Hard to not feel sad and scared that no one’s reading.

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