How Does 'Older' Compare To Other Novels About Aging?

What fascinates me about 'Older' is how it redefines the aging narrative structurally. Most novels use linear timelines to show decline or growth, but this one jumps between decades like a playlist on shuffle. One chapter shows the protagonist at 30, panicking over wrinkles, then cuts to her at 60 laughing at that same fear. The non-chronological format makes aging feel less like a straight path and more like a mosaic of selves.

Unlike 'A Man Called Ove' which ties aging to grief, or 'The Thursday Murder Club' that treats it as a quirky backdrop, 'Older' lets aging be the antagonist and the ally. Physical limitations are real—the book doesn't pretend arthritis is cute—but neither does it ignore the strategic advantages. Forgetfulness becomes a weapon when the protagonist 'accidentally' ignores toxic relatives; slowed reflexes make her observe details younger people miss. The writing style itself embodies this—sentences start crisp, then fracture midway like stiff joints refusing to bend smoothly.

What clinches it is the humor. 'Older' never devolves into saccharine life lessons or grim despair. There's a scene where the heroine replaces her dead houseplants with plastic ones and dares guests to call her out—that mix of defiance and resignation is something I've never seen in other aging narratives. It's not about winning or losing against time, but changing the game entirely.

I've read countless novels about aging, but 'Older' stands out because it doesn't romanticize or catastrophize getting older. Most books either treat aging like a tragic flaw or some mystical wisdom-granting process. 'Older' keeps it raw—characters deal with creaky joints and fading memories, but also discover bizarre new freedoms. The protagonist doesn't suddenly become enlightened; she just stops giving a damn about petty dramas, which ironically makes her more dangerous. The book nails how aging amplifies your core personality—kind people glow warmer, bitter ones calcify into caricatures. It's not a 'coming-of-age' story but a 'become-who-you-always-were' story, with all the ugly and beautiful that entails.

Most aging novels focus on loss—of love, health, dreams. 'Older' flips that by treating age as a rebellion. The protagonist dyes her hair neon pink not to 'stay young' but because she's finally brave enough to offend people. Small acts like this redefine power dynamics in ways action-packed youth stories can't touch. Her aging body isn't a prison; it's a badge proving she survived societal expectations.

What's radical is how the book handles relationships. Unlike 'The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo' where age is framed through past romances, 'Older' shows new connections forming precisely because of age. The protagonist befriends a tattooed millennial not despite their gap, but because their mutual disregard for 'appropriate behavior' creates solidarity. Intergenerational friendships here aren't wholesome—they're alliances against a world obsessed with categorizing people.

The prose itself mirrors aging's contradictions. Some paragraphs flow lush and slow like joints warmed up after morning stiffness; others are abrupt as bones snapping. It doesn't offer closure or redemption arcs—just the quiet satisfaction of outliving the versions of yourself that once cared too much.